


Wheel of the Year

by theorchardofbones



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: 2000s, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Gen, M/M, Wicca AU, chubby!prompto
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-15 04:17:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 45,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12313611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: Insomnia Falls is unremarkable in many ways, except perhaps for its charming cobblestone streets and picturesque architecture. Nestled within an idyllic landscape of rolling hills and forests, it's the perfect place to settle down and raise a family.Yet there's more to this sleepy little town than meets the eye, and more still to the people who call it home.Prompto Argentum lives a happy — if boring — life in a place where nothing interesting ever seems to happen, but everything is about to be turned on its head as a sinister yet familiar face arrives in town.





	1. Prologue — Ten Years Ago

The little cottage where the Argentums lived was filled with the smell of freshly-plucked wildflowers and baking. All around the house were blooms of all colours, neatly arranged in pots and vases and — when there were neither pots nor vases left to house them — empty bottles and jars.

Prompto’s blonde curls bounced as he ran across the room, almost slipping on the hardwood floor; eventually he made it to his mother’s side and threw his arms around her middle where his arms just barely reached.

‘Oh!’ she exclaimed, as her seven-year-old son’s arm wrapped around her. ‘Good morning to you, too!’

‘Is Dad home?’

‘Not yet, sweetheart,’ she said. She carefully dusted flour off her hands and leaned down, until her face was level with his. ‘He’s coming on the train this afternoon. He’ll be home for dinner.’

‘Really?’ Prompto said. ‘Promise?’

His mother smiled and tapped his nose, leaving the slightest flour imprint on the tip of it.

‘Promise,’ she said. ‘He won’t be home for another while. Why don’t you go see if your uncle needs some help today?’

He practically bounced on his feet as he turned tail and ran for the door, flinging it open without a care. He gave her a frantic wave before shutting it behind him, leaving just enough time to see her patient smile as she shook her head in amusement at him.

Neighbours waved as they watch the Argentums’ boy take off down the lane at breakneck speed. He almost knocked into the mailman making his rounds and barely paused to give an apology.

He was in such a hurry that he didn’t notice the car outside his uncle’s house right away, but when he saw it, it was hard to look away. It wasn’t any make he recognised, but he thought it was pretty cool — a deep purplish red, with a white stripe down the middle. Best of all, it was a convertible.

Prompto moved around the car, admiring it in every way short of touching it. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to take a ride in it with the top down, the wind rushing by overhead.

He was trying to get a look at the logo on the front when he heard his uncle’s voice and his head instinctively whipped towards the sound of it.

‘There are plenty of mechanics in town who’ll take a look at her for you. Insomnia Falls is just over that way.’

He sounded irritated — in a restrained sort of way, like he was trying not to let it show.

The voice that chimed in in response was unfamiliar, heavily laden with an accent, and something about it made Prompto’s skin crawl.

‘Oh, but it’s such trouble to drive  _ all the way out _ when there’s a perfectly good mechanic right here,’ the stranger said. ‘Won’t you at least take a look at it for me? As a favour for a friend of a friend?’

Prompto edged around the car, just far enough that he could peek at the garage attached to Cor’s house. The rolling door was open and Cor stood just within it, squinting at the sun as he faced the stranger in front of him.

Even from his vantage point, Prompto could see that the newcomer was an odd one. He was wearing a thick, dark overcoat in spite of the warmth of the season. His hair, a shade of burgundy that almost matched the car, hung in loose waves, heavy with grease; a fedora sat perched atop it, at a jaunty angle.

‘Afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Cor said tersely. ‘Friend of a friend?’

The man nodded and made a theatrical sweep of his hand.

‘I knew Callista Gardener quite well, once upon a time,’ the man said. ‘You used to… associate with her lot, didn’t you? You  _ are _ Cor Leonis, no?’

Prompto watched as Cor crossed his arms and took a slight step back, away from the stranger. His uncle opened his mouth as if to respond, but before he got the chance he finally spotted Prompto, poorly hidden by the car in the drive.

‘Prompto?’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’

The strange man turned, giving Prompto a better view of him. He had a sharp nose and jaw, and his eyes were small and shrewd; those same eyes affixed on Prompto as he moved to head up the drive and he found himself frozen in his tracks under that appraising glance.

‘And who are  _ you,  _ my dear boy?’ the man said.

‘Prompto,’ Cor replied sharply. ‘Callista’s boy.’

Realisation dawned on the stranger’s face; he opened his mouth wide in surprise, and ventured down the slope a few steps toward Prompto.

‘Of course!’ the man said. ‘Why, look at those lovely blonde curls. He does so take after his father, doesn’t he?’

Prompto didn’t see his uncle shift uncomfortably; didn’t see him move closer, as if to put himself between Prompto and this man. He was too distracted, locked in the stranger’s gaze.

‘I think you’re mistaken,’ Cor said. ‘It’s Callista  _ Argentum _ now.’

Prompto found himself trapped for just a moment longer, then suddenly the man’s glance relinquished its hold on him and he felt like he could breathe again. Without thinking, he hurried up the slope to Cor’s side, ducking a little behind him.

‘Argentum?’ the man echoed. ‘Hm. That’s a surprise. Well, regardless — I hope you’ll consider my offer. I’ll be here for a few days, at any rate. I doubt you’ll have any trouble finding me.’

The man swept away, the long tails of his coat gliding behind him. He donned his hat once more before opening the door of the car and climbing in; as he turned the key in the ignition, he gave them both an elegant little wave, his gaze lingering once more on Prompto.

As soon as the stranger’s car was gone from the drive, Prompto looked up at his uncle. He couldn’t quite say why, but he felt cold.

‘Who was that man?’ he asked.

Cor was silent for a long time, watching the car go. He didn’t stop until it rounded the corner and disappeared from view.

‘Nobody,’ Cor said. ‘You don’t have to worry about him.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/mooglemallow)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, the mid-2000s. Emo music, Veronica Mars, Bush's second term, and the tentative days of Web 2.0 before social media was A Thing.
> 
> There's not really any reason for setting this in '06 other than that was when I was Prompto and Noct's age. Plus, y'know, fashion was great back then, y'all.

_September 2006_

‘Dude, you look awful.’

Prompto tries to calculate the effort required to make some form of witty retort to his friend; in the end it proves too much and he merely shakes his head and groans, burying his face in his arms.

The truth is, he’s been sleeping terribly for weeks now. Every time he catches sight of his reflection there are dark circles under his eyes and his face is pale and gaunt.

He feels Noctis clap a hand down reassuringly on his shoulder. When he lifts his head, his friend is looking at him with enough genuine worry on his face that it makes Prompto’s stomach flip.

‘You can bail tonight, you know?’ Noct says. ‘Everybody’ll understand.’

For a moment, Prompto is almost tempted — the thought of socialising with a group of people is far from appealing right now, let alone in several hours’ time when he’s even more tired. It would be so easy to take Noct’s suggestion as permission, but the last time he skipped a gathering he missed out on so much.

He shakes his head, although he regrets it almost immediately.

‘Nah,’ he says. ‘It’s cool. It’s just for a few hours.’

Noct shrugs.

‘Your call.’

There are books spread out all across the table where they sit at the library. It’s the start of junior year and, apparently, the one that really counts for college. They’ve been back at school a few weeks and already Prompto feels like he’s struggling to catch up.

Prompto pulls one of Noct’s notebooks over, scans briefly across his friend’s illegible handwriting, and heaves a sigh.

‘Not like I couldn’t use a break, anyways,’ Prompto says. ‘My brain is so full of useless information I don’t even know what I’m doing any more.'

Noct leans over and lifts the cover of the book under Prompto’s arm.

‘AP Calc,’ he reads. ‘Oh, that’s mine.’

While Noct pulls the book out from under him, Prompto groans and buries his face once more. That probably explains why nothing was making any sense.

Prompto hears rustling as Noct gathers up his things and stuffs them into his backpack.

‘I gotta go,’ Noct says, nudging him in the side. ‘You wanna meet me after work? We can get ready at my place.’

Prompto doesn’t bother lifting his head; just raises his hand as a gesture of agreement before letting it drop again.

* * *

 

Prompto holds one of Noct’s shirts up in front of himself and grimaces. It’s cute — for somebody Noct’s size. With a world weary sigh, he lets it drop onto the steadily growing pile of clothes.

‘Why don’t you wear the black one?’ Noct says lazily. He’s on his phone like he has been all the time lately, barely paying attention.

Prompto glances at the garments discarded all around him — the maybes, the nopes, and the _definitely nots_. Referring to ‘the black one’ doesn’t really narrow it down given that most of Noct’s wardrobe is in varying shades of black.

‘The dress shirt?’ he says. ‘Or the turtleneck?’

He waits for Noct’s answer for a long while before he realises he isn’t getting one. Whoever Noct is texting, this mystery person apparently takes priority over the here and now.

Prompto grabs one of the shirts closest to him and balls it up, tossing it at Noct’s head.

‘Hey!’ his friend says, shoving the offending item away indignantly. ‘I was listening! I meant the one with the mesh.’

Prompto remembers the one: it’s see-through and, as with all of Noct’s wardrobe, several sizes too small. He had held it up to check it against himself as a joke only to toss it aside in disgust.

‘No thanks,’ he says, wrinkling his nose. ‘Nobody wants to see me wearing _that._ ’

Noct shakes his head in frustration and gives a sigh, tossing his phone aside, and Prompto hugs his arms around himself while he watches his friend get up and hunt through the heaps of clothes until he finds what he’s looking for. He presses the shirt to Prompto’s chest and points him toward the en suite with an impatient little wave.

‘Go,’ he says. ‘Just trust me, okay? You can borrow a tank for underneath.’

Prompto looks down at the shirt in his hands and holds it up to look at it, plucking it from the corner as if it might explode. He already knows he’ll look terrible in it, but he can see that glint in Noct’s eyes that says he isn’t going to give up so easily. It’s a rare day when Noct puts his mind to something; when he does, he’s like a dog with a bone.

‘ _Fine,_ ’ Prompto replies, sighing in exasperation.

At least it’s easy enough to find a tank top that fits somewhat well — Prompto’s pretty sure it’s something Noct usually wears to bed, but he puts the thought out of his head.

The black skinny jeans he brought from home are the nicest pair he owns, but even though he can just about squeeze into them, he can’t help but prod self-consciously at the roll of flesh that bulges out over the top of them. The borrowed dark red tank top just about covers it, although when he moves in anything other than a robotic fashion it rolls up and exposes a sliver of pale flesh.

The mesh shirt only seems to make matters worse, tight as it is, although he’s grateful that the full-length sleeves go some way toward hiding his arms.

He steps back into the bedroom and toes at the carpet underfoot, staring down at the whites of his Converse. He already knows what Noct is going to say, but his friend won’t let the matter drop until he sees just how bad it is for himself.

‘Perfect,’ Noct says.

When Prompto looks up, he expects to find his friend distracted by his phone again — but he’s not. He’s looking right at Prompto, and if Prompto didn’t know better he’d think he was impressed.

‘You’re… You’re kidding, right?’ Prompto stammers. ‘I look like a reject from a photoshoot for Kerrang.’

With a roll of his blue eyes, Noct crosses the room and grips Prompto by the shoulders, looking sternly at him.

‘Repeat after me,’ he says. ‘ _I look hot._ ’

‘You look h—’ Prompto says, but he breaks off with a yelp as Noct slaps his arm. Huffing, he tries again: ‘I look hot.’

Noct’s lips settle into a satisfied smirk and he takes a step back at last, letting go of Prompto. He looks fantastic, of course — but then he always does. He’s in designer jeans and a plain black t-shirt that clings in all the right places and looks every bit as expensive as its fifty-dollar price tag.

‘You ready?’ Noct says. ‘I’m starving.’

* * *

 

The Caelums’ home is decorated with the colours of the season: red, orange, gold and maroon. Everywhere there are reminders of the onset of fall, but there’s a warmth to the place in spite of the chill already in the air outside. When Prompto strains his ears, he thinks he can hear music playing softly over the sound of polite chatter.

The double doors to the dining room are open, revealing the feast spread out across the table, but the conservatory is the source of all the sounds of revelry. Within, twinkle lights dangle from the ceiling, and strands of red and gold tissue paper stream over the guests’ heads.

‘Think they’d notice if we skipped out and ate?’ Noct says, with a glance toward the dining room.

There’s no question that he’s kidding — these gatherings are just as important to him as they are to his father, but Prompto can’t argue that the food doesn’t smell amazing. He feels a little pang of pride to see it all there, laid out so elegantly. His mom outdid herself.

‘C’mon,’ Prompto says, ignoring the pang of hunger. ‘Sooner we get this over with, the sooner we get food.’

It’s always a little daunting, stepping into these gatherings. Prompto knows he’s practically family by now, but there’s a part of him that feels out of his depth — especially when’s so shabby in his hand-me-down robe. Between Noct and his father’s matching robes of black with fancy silver embroidery, and those worn by the other guests, Prompto knows he stands out.

That’s not what this is about, of course, and he tries to keep that in mind as Noct steers him to the conservatory doors. The warm smiles of the people that greet them do a little to help dislodge the feeling that he doesn’t belong.

‘Ah, at last!’

It’s a voice that commands attention — fair and kind, with an English accent that still hasn’t dislodged after almost two decades of living here. Prompto finds himself instinctively looking over at where Noct’s father stands in the centre of the room, his greying hair adorned with a garland of russet leaves. The music ceases, and all eyes are on the host.

‘Now that my son has decided to grace us with his presence,’ Regis says, ‘we can begin. If everyone wouldn’t mind heading outside, thank you.’

There are a few new faces this year, but everyone moves in a steady line out through the door into the garden as if they’ve done this before.

Prompto sees a man with close-shorn linger by Regis’s side, murmuring into his ear, and Regis nods intently in response. Before Prompto can think to ask who he is, Noct grabs his hand and tugs him outside.

The exterior of the house has been done up much like inside, with the addition of heat lamps dotted about to ward off the cold evening air. Some of the younger guests instinctively flock toward the warmth, but when Regis steps out everyone soon arranges themselves into a neat circle.

Prompto finds himself wedged between Noct and a guy he doesn’t recognise, with long dark hair tied into a messy knot behind his head. Across the circle he can see Regis beside the man from earlier, and Prompto’s mother stands on Regis’s other side.

‘Thank you all for coming,’ Regis says. ‘I know that autumn is a difficult season to make time for our gatherings, with so many commitments — school, work, family. While a few of our number are gone, I see some new faces tonight and for that, I’m glad.

‘Today is the second harvest festival, a time for enjoying the fruits of our labours and preparing for the winter. I’m sure you’re all very eager to get along to the feast you all saw inside, very graciously prepared by Callista Argentum.’

Regis turns to her, and Prompto watches as his mother’s cheeks flush brilliantly in the dim light of the heat lamps. She gives a nervous little wave, and he sees her shrink back a little behind Regis’s shoulder as if to hide from the limelight.

‘I won’t keep you long,’ Regis continues, ‘but I thought we might take some time first to silently contemplate the things we’re grateful for.’

While the circle had been in silence before, the hush that falls over it now is profound. One by one, Prompto sees the other guests close their eyes and take each other’s hands; beside him, Noct’s cold hand clasps his, and he feels the warm, calloused grip of the guy on his left.

‘We are thankful,’ Regis says, ‘for the bountiful harvest. We are thankful for the opportunities we have been given, for the kindness and patience we have been shown by our neighbours. We are thankful for family and friends — those here with us now, and those never forgotten.’

Prompto feels a chill stir across his neck — the breeze, his imagination. When he opens his eyes and looks at Noct, his friend won’t quite meet his glance.

Prompto is only too glad to retreat to the warmth of the house later, once the circle is over. He shrugs off his robe and he and Noct quickly discard them upstairs before heading back to the dining room. Everyone is already eating by the time they return, and they have to squeeze through the revelers to get close to the table.

‘I still can’t believe your mom made all this,’ Noct says, over a mouthful of homemade bread. ‘Weren’t you complaining about having TV dinners all week?’

Prompto shovels a slice of apple pie onto his plate and shoots a glance across the room. His mother is chatting with Regis and that man again, and she’s so animated it’s like he’s looking at a different person.

‘Yeah,’ he murmurs. ‘Pretty hard to believe.’

There are a few children in attendance, and Prompto watches them run around in between the other guests amid half-hearted protests from the adults. When a little boy collides with a woman’s legs, a young girl with dark hair steps over and takes him aside, gently scolding him.

Prompto remembers coming to these gatherings, years ago, when he had been too young to know what they were all about. He remembers his mom and dad holding each of his hands between them, smiling and nodding as he excitedly chattered about all the food he was going to eat and all the games he was going to play.

He remembers whining at the unfairness of it when Cor eventually came to pick him up and take him home, while his parents stayed with the other adults; remembers Cor distracting him with movies and ice cream and promises that someday, he would be old enough to stay until the end, too.

‘Prom?’

He blinks. Noct’s in front of him, holding out a glass of cider; he accepts it and reflexively takes a sip, hardly noticing the warmth of it, or the infusion of spices to add to its flavour.

He looks up at his mother and finds her staring across the room, her eyes blank as the merriment goes on around her. Prompto wonders if her thoughts are on the same thing that his had been.

‘Iggy said he’s gonna try to make it back for Halloween,’ Noct says. ‘I mean, _Samhain_.’

Prompto nods distractedly, but his eyes are still on his mother. He watches the man with the close-cropped hair turn to her and gently lay a hand on her wrist; she startles slightly as she returns to the moment, flashing an apologetic smile.

‘Uh-huh,’ Prompto says.

He just about registers Noct sighing beside him. With a shake of his head, he tries to push her out of his mind and turns to his friend again.

‘Who’s the guy?’ he says. ‘With my mom and your dad?’

Noct peers around for a bit until he spots them, then shrugs.

‘Old college friend of my dad’s, I guess,’ he says. ‘Clarus Amicitia. I used to play with his son when we were little.’

He lifts his hand, pointing at the girl who had stopped the errant little boy who had been running around.

‘That’s Iris,’ Noct says. ‘His daughter. She’s, like, twelve — but she’s cool.’

When Noct points again, Prompto barely has to search before he sees a teenager towering over the heads of the others around him, and when he spots the dark hair in a knot he recognises him from earlier, in the circle.

‘That’s his son, Gladiolus,’ Noct says. ‘It’s probably hard to believe, but he was a scrawny little shit like me too, once.’

Prompto does have trouble believing it; even across the room, he can see the muscle showing through Gladiolus’s shirt. His skin is darker than his sister’s, and a tattoo peeks out under the rolled-up sleeve of his shirt.

He’s staring — he realises too late, and finds Gladiolus looking right back at him.

‘He seems, uh,’ Prompto says, glancing away.

‘Intense?’ Noct suggests. ‘Yeah, he is a little. Hard to believe we used to play cops and robbers together.’

Prompto takes a sip from his drink and tries not to look back again, even though he can still feel Gladiolus’s eyes on him. He pulls at his tank self-consciously where he feels it riding up, flashing a patch of glaringly pale skin for everyone to see. After a long while, when he hazards a glance again, Gladiolus has moved away to some other part of the room.

‘You staying tonight?’ Noct asks, tapping him on the shoulder.

Prompto nods.

There’s a glimmer in Noct’s eyes — never a good sign. He pushes Prompto’s glass, steering it up toward his mouth.

‘Good,’ he says. ‘We can move on to the hard cider when you’re done.’


	3. Chapter 3

The spray of glow-in-the-dark stars across the ceiling of Noct’s room had been a gag — something for when Prompto stayed over, so he wouldn’t feel quite so homesick for the galaxy he painted across his ceiling back home. It’s comforting sometimes to stare up at them as the green glow slowly fades, but tonight it’s not enough to get his mind to settle.

His mom, Regis’s speech, everything — it all keeps playing across his mind. The more he thinks about it, the more he knows he’s just making himself anxious, but he can’t shut it off.

Noct has been asleep for hours, of course. They had watched Korean horror movies for a while after the last guests had left, sharing leftovers from the party, and even though Noct had tried to stay awake for Prompto’s sake he had eventually succumbed to his exhaustion.

Prompto lifts his wrist and presses the light on the side of his Casio. It’s almost three.

At least tomorrow is Sunday, although he has to suppress a groan at the thought of all the homework he has left to finish before Monday. Summer seems like such a distant memory.

Silently, he crawls from the bed and pads out of the room, finding his way mostly by touch down the hallway where the moonlight casts a wan glow. The stairwell is better lit; a huge skylight shows the moon and stars in all their glory overhead and lights his way down each step to the bottom.

It’s not far to the kitchen from the stairs, but he finds his eye drawn to Regis’s office. The door is closed; underneath it shines a faint light from within. That’s not unusual, even for the time of night — when Noct’s grandfather died, he left the family fortune to Regis, which he in turn invested into various ventures in the community. Prompto still doesn’t know how somebody can be so busy all the time and yet have energy left to play the host as often as he does.

He’s across the foyer, stepping into the kitchen when the door clicks open behind him, pouring light across the floor.

‘It won’t go away by itself. Sooner or later, we’ll have to deal with it head-on.’

Prompto doesn’t recognise the man’s voice; when he peers around the door frame he sees the man from earlier, with the shorn hair — Clarus. His brow is furrowed with concern.

Regis steps out after him. Prompto has never thought of him as old, yet as the light falls across his face his features look more tired and drawn than Prompto has ever seen them.

‘I know,’ Regis says. ‘Gods, believe me — I know. But we can’t afford to drag the children into it.’

‘He’s sending _letters,_ Regis!’ Clarus says. ‘Taunting us! It’s only a matter of time before the children get involved, whether we like it or not.’

Prompto watches Regis sigh and pinch the bridge of his nose; watches Clarus rest a hand gently on his arm and step close, until the shape of them embracing blocks the light from the room beyond them.

‘I still think it was a mistake bringing Iris,’ Regis says. ‘Do you really think it was wise, when we’re all in the same place? It’s clearly what he wants.’

Clarus steps back and shakes his head, folding his arms across his front.

‘I wasn’t leaving my family alone,’ he says. ‘Kasumi wasn’t happy having to up and leave, either, so you two can bond over what a disappointment I am, as always.’

Regis chuckles softly and the worry seems to ebb from his face, bit by bit.

‘You’re never a disappointment, pet.’

Prompto doesn’t wait for them to say their goodbyes; he feels as though he’s intruded enough. He steps over to the cupboard and takes a glass out, quietly as he can, before filling it from the faucet. He drains the glass and pours himself another, and heads back to the hall.

The front door is closed; Regis stands in front of it, staring at the lock as if lost in thought. He only looks up when Prompto clears his throat softly.

‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Prompto. I didn’t realise you were up.’

Prompto shrugs and lifts the glass up for Regis to see. He silently prays that Regis didn’t realise he was eavesdropping, but nothing about the man’s body language implies that he’s aware.

‘Just getting water, sir,’ Prompto says.

Regis heaves a sigh, and Prompto knows what he’s thinking — _how many times do I have to tell you it’s ‘Regis’, not ‘sir’?_ They both know it’s fruitful, however, and for once the words remain unsaid as Regis merely waves his hand.

‘Goodnight, Prompto.’

‘Goodnight.’

Prompto’s halfway up the stairs when Regis’s voice calls his attention back.

‘Prompto,’ the man says. ‘Would you care to stay until lunch?

Prompto turns and nods; he barely has to think about it.

Regis gives another vague wave of his hand.

‘Good,’ he says. ‘Well, tomorrow then.’

The two men’s words still ring in Prompto’s ears as he climbs back into bed. He keeps far from Noct while his skin is still cold from his jaunt out of the covers, but once he’s warmed up he soon gravitates closer to his friend, huddling in against his sleeping figure.

He doesn’t know what Regis and Clarus had been talking about, but he had caught enough of it to unsettle him.

Whoever they had been referring to — whoever has been sending the letters Clarus mentioned — Prompto can only imagine they spell bad news. He just hopes he doesn’t have the misfortune of running into them, whoever it might be.

* * *

Prompto and Noct sit wrapped up in blankets, eating dry cereal while they watch morning cartoons. Another tradition, and one in which Prompto is only too glad to seek comfort; sleep had evaded him long after he had returned to bed, and his dreams had been fitful.

Noct looks just as tired as Prompto, but then he’s never been a morning person. His face is all swollen with sleep, his lips in a perpetual pout.

They’re not exactly _on_ the couch; more propped against it, knees pulled up to their chests. When Regis walks into the lounge, it takes a little while before he spots them and he rests against the back of the couch, leaning over them.

‘I don’t want to ruin this lovely lazy Sunday morning,’ he says, ‘but it’s almost eleven. You might get dressed before our guests arrive, Noctis?’

Noct groans and drops his head back against the couch behind him.

‘It’s just the Amicitias, Dad,’ he says. ‘Gladio’s seen me naked.’

Beside him, Prompto chokes on a piece of cereal.

‘Quite,’ Regis replies wryly. ‘Nevertheless, I wanted to formally welcome them back to town. Prompto hasn’t had the pleasure of meeting them yet, either.’

Prompto’s swallows the offending mouthful of food and gives his best approximation of an appreciative smile. When Regis is gone, he digs an elbow into Noct’s side.

‘You didn’t say people were coming over for lunch,’ he says. ‘Now I gotta try to dress up.’

The shrug Noct gives is infuriatingly careless. He pops a cornflake into his mouth and sinks a little deeper into his blanket.

‘S’no big deal, seriously,’ Noct replies. ‘You know how my dad likes to make everything into an _occasion._ ’

Prompto flicks a glance toward the doorway. Noct has a point — simplicity is seldom in his father’s vocabulary. Yet Prompto can’t help but be a little anxious when he knows Gladiolus will be there, too; something about the guy had made him feel so self-conscious. He wasn’t even planning on showering today, but that’s already first on his agenda.

‘I’m gonna get dressed,’ he says, setting his cereal aside.

Noct doesn’t argue, nor does he follow. They’ve known each other long enough now that Prompto has free reign of the house, although Regis’s office is, as ever, off limits. He doesn’t count the one and only occasion he was unfortunate enough to find himself across the desk from Regis while both he and Noct found themselves subjected to a lecture about sneaking out of Noct’s bedroom window one night.

Once Prompto has showered, he makes a token effort at getting his hair to sit somewhat nicely and slips into the same jeans from yesterday. He grabs an oversized band tee from his overnight bag, considering Greenday to be inoffensive enough, and tugs it on.

Noct still hasn’t come upstairs to get ready, but Prompto knows he’ll manage to look great with minimal effort. He trudges back downstairs and, sure enough, his friend is still glued to his spot, shovelling handfuls of cereal into his mouth at sporadic intervals when he remembers the box is there.

With a roll of his eyes, Prompto moves and grabs his friend by the upper arm, tugging him reluctantly to his feet.

* * *

The Amicitias only number four, between Kasumi and Clarus and their two children, but their presence is immediately felt once they step through the front door. Perhaps it’s Iris and her unquenchable enthusiasm, or Kasumi and her bright smile; even as Gladiolus stands off glowering behind the rest of his family, it does little to dampen the effect.

There’s a lot of embraces and fumbled introductions, and the first thing that really strikes Prompto about Iris is that she blatantly has a crush on Noct. As always, of course, his friend is oblivious.

‘I hope everyone’s hungry,’ Regis says, cutting across the excited chattering. ‘Callista made quite the feast for us.’

Prompto can’t help but think of his mother, probably already thick with the stench of grease on her shift at the diner, as Regis leads them into the conservatory where tables have been set out with dishes on display. She hadn’t told him she was catering lunch for the Caelums — had barely even mentioned off-hand that he had asked her to cook for the equinox gathering.

As everyone takes their seats, Prompto is glad when Kasumi wedges herself in on his left while Noct takes a place on his left, as it leaves Gladiolus far from him. After some shuffling of chairs, however, he finds Gladiolus in the chair directly opposite, with his father on one side and his sister on the other.

‘I was disappointed not to see Ignis last night,’ Clarus says, as Regis takes his seat at the head of the table. ‘How’s he settling in at Harvard?’

Regis wears an expression somewhere between pride and bemusement; having taken Ignis in as a child several years earlier, he considers him as much his son as Noct, although his ambition is entirely his own.

Prompto used to find Ignis intimidating, when they first met — between his stunning intellect and aloof demeanour, it’s hard not to feel inadequate next to him.

‘You know Ignis,’ Regis says, with a mild shake of his head. ‘Biting off more than he can chew, and thriving all the better for it.’

Kasumi ducks her head forward a little, looking between Prompto and Noct with a smile.

‘You’ll be applying to schools this year, won’t you?’ she asks. ‘Any thoughts?’

‘Noct is looking into IT,’ Regis provides helpfully. ‘They’re predicting the industry is going to boom over the next few years, so he’ll have a head start.’

Prompto is grateful when the conversation stays on Noct; Kasumi’s polite attempt at asking where _he_ plans on studying is, thankfully, sidelined by Clarus bringing up some story from his and Regis’s days at college.

Prompto sits in silence while the others chat, and although Noct is characteristically terse in his responses, he still manages to chime in more than Prompto.

Across the table, Gladiolus is intent on his food, glowering down at his plate as though he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.

‘Calli hasn’t lost her touch,’ Clarus says, through a mouthful of quiche. ‘She’s wasted on that diner.’

Regis chuckles softly and raises his glass of wine.

‘With any luck, that won’t be the case much longer.’

Prompto feels his mouth grow dry; suddenly the food seems bitter on his tongue. Whatever Regis is alluding to, it’s news to him. He wants to ask what Regis had meant, but the topic soon shifts again — this time to Kasumi’s career as an illustrator. He barely listens, the others’ words drifting from time to time into his awareness, as his thoughts dwell on his mother.

He only looks up when he hears his name; he finds several pairs of eyes watching him, and heat rushes to his cheeks.

‘Uh, sorry,’ he blurts. ‘What was that?’

Clarus clears his throat. Apparently, he had been the one to speak.

‘You might not recall,’ he says, ‘but I used to stop by Cor’s home sometimes and find you tinkering away with him on cars. You fixed my radio.’

Prompto tries to run through all the many different faces he saw in his time at Cor’s place; he doesn’t remember Clarus, but he does remember the radio — he had been eight, and his mother hadn’t sold the cottage yet so he still used to drop by every day after school. Cor had looked helplessly at the radio only for Prompto to open up the back of it and happily sort through the wires until he figured out the problem.

School has always been a problem for him, but with anything practical — anything he can get his hands on — he shines.

‘I… I think I remember that,’ Prompto says timidly. ‘You gave me twenty bucks.’

‘That was a fraction of what I would’ve been charged if I brought it in somewhere,’ Clarus says dryly. ‘Did you keep that up?’

‘I work at his garage sometimes,’ Prompto says, trying to keep his voice level even as he has to fight not to shrink away from the sudden limelight. ‘Pays better than an allowance, anyways.’

He neglects to mention that he doesn’t _have_ an allowance — that anything his mother brings in that doesn’t immediately go on bills and rent eventually gets whittled down by day-to-day expenses. He has the feeling that the Amicitias never have to worry about giving their kids an allowance.

‘That’s good,’ Clarus says, with a thoughtful nod. ‘Practical skills are useful to hang onto. For years, I wanted to be carpenter. My father had different ideas, of course.’

‘Gladiolus is lucky,’ Kasumi supplies, smiling warmly. ‘Clarus isn’t _quite_ so strict.’

For the first time today, Prompto lets his glance meet Gladiolus’s. The boy’s amber eyes — if he can be called a boy, at the age of nineteen and already shoulder to shoulder with his father — hold his for a moment before flicking down once more towards his plate.

‘What, uh,’ Prompto says, stumbling over his words.

He means to ask what it is that Gladiolus does, but Iris cuts across him before he gets a chance.

‘ _Daddy_ says it’s better to encourage our hobbies,’ she blurts. ‘It shows… uh, zealotry.’

Beside Prompto, Kasumi gives a pleasant little laugh.

‘That’s _zeal_ , my darling,’ she says. ‘Zealotry is a bad thing.’

* * *

Prompto and Noct see the Amicitias off at the door after their meal; they pile into their Chrysler and Kasumi waves cheerfully from the passenger seat as Clarus turns the car in the drive.

Once the car is out of sight, Prompto feels himself relax just slightly. It’s not that he didn’t enjoy their company — it was just a lot to take in on a Sunday afternoon.

‘They seem nice,’ he says, as Noct shuts the door.

Noct shrugs. It’s about as close to a glowing endorsement as anybody can expect from him; Prompto hadn’t missed the subtle shift in his demeanour as he had interacted with his guests, particularly when Kasumi and Iris had spoken to him. It had been nice to see.

‘I guess they’re moving back to town for a while,’ Noct says. ‘I think my dad said Clarus got a transfer or something? Kinda sucks, having to move your whole family for work.’

Prompto chews his lip. They head upstairs together, and he’s not sure if it’s the inevitability of all the homework they have to do or the reminder of the conversation he overheard in the middle of the night that makes his stomach squirm.

Noct flops onto his bed once they’re in the room. With a groan, he gives a wave of his hand toward the stereo sitting on the desk by the window and Prompto sighs, heading over to it.

‘Any requests?’ Prompto asks, pushing the button to open the disc tray.

‘Surprise me.’

Prompto scans through Noct’s sizeable collection until he finds Panic! at the Disco and slips their album into the stereo. Once the music is playing, he heads for the bed and lies on his back on the bit of mattress left unoccupied by his friend.

‘What did my dad say?’ Noct says, barely lifting his head to speak. ‘About your mom? Is she quitting the diner?’

The squirming in Prompto’s gut had abated somewhat; it comes back suddenly in full force.

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I don’t think so? I mean… she’s still paying off the car.’

Noct snorts.

‘Maybe if she gets a new job you can convince her to drive that shitty thing into the Atlantic where it belongs.’

Prompto tries to force a chuckle, but it comes out all strained and wrong. If his mom _is_ getting a new job, it should make him happy — but why hasn’t she said anything to him about it? It feels like they’re two ships passing in the night lately, with never a moment to spare for each other.

‘You think you’ll come back?’ Prompto says. ‘Like, after college?’

Noct looks up at him under his bangs, wrinkling his nose.

‘Are you kidding?’ he says. ‘College is a one-way ticket _outta here._ ’

As Noct moves to grab his backpack and take out his schoolbooks, Prompto feels his stomach sink further, bit by bit.

‘Yeah,’ he mutters, mostly to himself. ‘I guess it is.’


	4. Chapter 4

As Halloween approaches, the fall spirit seems to kick into overtime in Insomnia Falls. The town takes the holiday even more seriously than Christmas, with its own fair share of myths and legends surrounding the night; Prompto can still remember the ghost stories that he and his friends used to tell, passed on from the generation before them.

He and Noct sit at the diner underneath banners of purple and orange, in a booth by a window with a ghost decal proudly displayed across it. He knows he should feel the usual excitement of the season, but for once he doesn’t.

There have been subtle shifts in the town these past few weeks — little things that feel off. His mom has been keeping to herself even more than usual, always busy with something that either takes her away from the house or has her locked away in her room for hours at a time. 

The last time she got like this, it had been after his dad died. Nearly ten years on, he’s worried she’s falling back into her old ways.

‘Dude,’ Noct says, reaching across the table and snapping fingers in front of Prompto’s face. ‘Earth to Argentum.’

Prompto blinks and sighs. His sundae has already turned to slush, neglected while he daydreams; he swirls his spoon through it half-heartedly.

‘You wanna watch movies later?’ Noct says. ‘Get in the Halloween spirit?’

‘Can’t,’ Prompto says, with a shake of his head. ‘I’m supposed to help train the new guy Cor just hired.’

‘Babysitting, huh?’ Noct replies. ‘That blows.’

Prompto lifts his shoulders in a shrug. The money will be good — and he’s getting a little sick of seeing the same old faces around at the auto shop.

‘Kinda breaks up the monotony,’ he says wearily. ‘I need the cash for the weekend, anyways.’

Noct rolls his eyes.

‘I  _ told _ you, dude. You don’t need to worry about that.’

Prompto gives a noncommittal shrug, and from the look on Noct’s face he can tell he knows the conversation isn’t over. Noct might be happy to comp for him, but it makes Prompto feel guilty.

‘I should get going,’ Prompto says, pushing his sundae aside. ‘I got homework I need to finish, too.’

Noct walks him out; along the way they pass Prompto’s mother and she spares a fleeting moment to wave before rushing to fill somebody’s order.

Outside, Noct nudges him playfully with an elbow while he unchains his bike from the rack.

‘I’m sorry your birthday’s kinda shitty this year,’ Noct says. ‘This weekend’s gonna be great, okay? Trust me.’

Prompto has his misgivings, but he keeps it to himself. It’s more of an early Halloween celebration since the actual night is on Tuesday, but Noct had had the brilliant idea to turn it into a belated birthday party too. Prompto has a feeling anybody who shows up will be there for the spooky decorations and drinks, and little else.

‘Say hi to Cor for me,’ Noct says, once Prompto is on his bike, his helmet safely clipped in place. ‘And tell me if the new guy’s a hottie.’

* * *

Business is never quite booming at Cor’s, but with his shop being the only place for miles he gets enough to keep going. Prompto is grateful for it, as he knows his mother is, too — there have been so many times over the years that Cor has had to bail them out that Prompto has lost count.

That’s how it’s always been, though — Cor looking out for them, standing by them through thick and thin. Prompto didn’t even realise he wasn’t  _ literally _ ‘Uncle Cor’ until he was eleven.

When he pulls his bike up and chains it to the rack, there’s a motorbike parked just outside the shop. He eyes the chipped, dirt-splattered paintwork of his 21-speed, then looks enviously at the matte black body of the Honda. Feeling a little sheepish, he hooks his helmet onto the bars of his bike and heads into the shop.

Cor stands with a man, chatting amiably. When Prompto approaches he flashes a smile before nodding his head discreetly toward the back.

Prompto slips out of his jacket as he goes, and hangs it on the hook just outside the breakroom. When he pokes his head through the door, there’s a guy in there with his head buried in a book, flipping pages with one hand while he lifts a mug of tea to his mouth with the other.

‘You’re the new guy, right?’ Prompto says, with a cheery smile. ‘I’m—’

He doesn’t get that far. The guy looks up, and Prompto’s stomach sinks as he realises it’s Gladiolus. Suddenly he regrets the faded Pikachu t-shirt and baggy, ill-fitting jeans.

‘Prompto,’ Gladiolus says. ‘Hey.’

He’s out of his seat after a moment, standing there awkwardly as if at attention. In his tight black tank top and skinny jeans, he looks every bit the part of a mechanic.

‘I didn’t realise it was you,’ Prompto stammers. ‘I mean — Cor never said anything. About you. Being the new guy.’

Gladiolus lifts his hand and scratches awkwardly at the nape of his neck, and the movement makes his tattooed arm catch the light.

Prompto realises, a little late, that he’s staring at the tattoo — trying to pick out the details of it.

‘Uh, let’s get started,’ Prompto says hurriedly. ‘I can show you around first. You ever worked as a mechanic before?’

Gladiolus shakes his head. He’s quiet as Prompto leads him about the place, showing him everything behind the scenes first, then directing him to the different parts of the shop itself.

Prompto introduces him to the other mechanics as he goes; with a little twinge of irritation, he sees Cindy’s gaze linger on Gladiolus long after they’ve walked away.

When they report to Cor, he sets them up with a minor job first: a dent that has to be beaten out of a ‘98 station wagon. Prompto shows Gladiolus the various tools, demonstrates what has to be done first, then lets Gladiolus tentatively take over.

‘So your family’s staying for a while?’ Prompto says, leaning against the car while Gladiolus works.

Gladiolus is too busy concentrating to look up; his brow is furrowed as he attends to his task, but his fingers seem to have picked it up quickly enough.

‘Guess so,’ he replies.

‘Must be a little weird being back here,’ Prompto says. ‘Noct says you two used to hang out when you were kids so it’s been, what, ten years?’

Beside him, Gladiolus gives a terse nod. If Prompto didn’t know better, he’d say his attempts at striking up a conversation were falling flat — with a little sigh, he gives up.

Once the job is mostly complete, Prompto leaves Gladiolus to finish it off and heads over to Cor for orders. He’s underneath a car when Prompto gets there; he slides out without having to be asked.

‘How’s he taking to it?’ Cor asks, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

Prompto shrugs.

‘Too early to tell. He seems… I dunno. He doesn’t talk much. It feels like he thinks he’s too good to be here.’

With a sigh, Cor sits up on his creeper, planting his feet flat to keep himself steady.

‘Give him a chance,’ Cor says. ‘I know he’s a little unapproachable at first, but think how you were on your first day at high school.’

‘A sweating, nervous wreck?’ Prompto supplies. ‘Yeah, I don’t think that’s Gladiolus’s style.’

Cor climbs to his feet and slings an arm around Prompto’s shoulders, steering him across the shop floor.

‘We all deal in our own ways,’ Cor says. ‘He’s got nobody here. Make him feel welcome.’

Cor sets them to work on an engine next, and Prompto knows it’s a little beyond even his own experience — but that’s probably the point. Between the two of them they have to work to pinpoint the exact issue, and it turns out that Gladiolus is more than willing to cooperate.

‘So why’d you move back with your family?’ Prompto says, while he watches Gladiolus delve oil-stained hands into the inner workings of the car. ‘You’re nineteen, right? Weren’t you at college, or whatever?’

He regrets asking almost immediately; he sees Gladiolus tense up, his hands stilling at their work, and as much as Prompto might like to take the words and shove them right back into his mouth, he can’t.

‘You don’t need to answer that,’ Prompto says quickly. ‘I mean, I get it. College isn’t for everybody.’

_ If you even have the grades to get in in the first place,  _ he adds, to himself.

Gladiolus doesn’t say anything for a while — long enough that Prompto thinks he’s dropped it. Eventually, however, he looks up and gives a shrug. There’s a smear of grease the shape of a fingerprint on his cheek, where he must have touched without thinking.

‘I took a semester,’ he says. ‘Didn’t work out.’

He doesn’t quite meet Prompto’s eye. Even though he makes a reasonable approximation of indifference, the hunch of his shoulders says otherwise.

‘S’okay,’ Prompto says. For all of Gladiolus’s attempts at playing it cool, Prompto feels like  _ he’s  _ doing a terrible job, too. ‘I don’t even know if I’ll go.’

For a second — just a fleeting, not-quite-there instant — Prompto sees something flicker through Gladiolus’s amber eyes that makes his heart pang. Pity? Sympathy?

Whatever it is, as Gladiolus returns to work, diligently navigating the engine block with deft fingers, Prompto finds himself seeing the guy in a new light.

‘Y’know,’ Prompto says. ‘Maybe Noct told you already, but we’re throwing a party at his place. Kind of a joint Halloween and, uh, birthday thing for me. You should come — if you want to, I mean.’

When Gladiolus glances up from the engine, Prompto expects him to outright refuse. He doesn’t, though, and when he inclines his head in what seems to be a noncommittal nod, Prompto takes it for a  _ yes. _

‘It’s at Noct’s,’ Prompto says. ‘Saturday. It starts at seven but, like… nobody ever really shows up until eight-thirty.’

‘Cool,’ Gladiolus says. ‘Maybe I’ll see you there.’

* * *

Prompto sits on the couch in the lounge of Noct’s home, wedged between Sailor Jupiter and a sexy nurse. He slips his fake fangs from his mouth long enough to take a gulp of Diet Coke, and pops them straight back in. They’re a pain to talk with, but it’s not like that’s a problem he has to worry about.

Hands clap down on his shoulders from behind the couch, and when he twists to look, the nails are painted with chipped black polish.

Noct went all out — a long black wig, dark eye makeup and a black shirt with a red tie. Prompto’s pretty sure some of the girls screamed when they walked in the door to see a near-perfect replica of Gerard Way standing in the foyer.

Noct’s already tipsy; the smell of alcohol is heavy on him as he leans over Prompto’s shoulder.

‘That’s just soda, right?’ he says. ‘Gonna let me freshen it up for ya?’

Prompto sighs and lifts his hand, shaking it so that his watch falls away from his wrist. It’s almost ten and there’s no sign of Gladiolus — he doesn’t know why got his hopes up about the guy showing up. He doesn’t even know why it matters. They work together now; it’s not like they’re friends.

‘Whatever,’ he mutters, lifting his cup.

He feels it dip slightly as Noct fills it from his flask. When he lowers it again, it’s almost overflowing and he has to slurp liquid from the top, wincing slightly at the tang of vodka that hits his throat.

‘Keep it on the downlow if you see Iggy, okay?’ Noct says conspiratorially. ‘He would kill me.  _ Literally. _ ’

It’s not like everybody else isn’t drinking — and Prompto knows that as much of a stickler for rules as Ignis can be, he’s generally cool enough not to tattle on Noct — but Prompto heeds his words nevertheless and keeps his cup close to him.

It isn’t long before the sexy nurse wanders off to dance with one of their classmates, leaving Prompto alone with Sailor Jupiter. He casts a glance over at her, but she’s playing Snake on her phone.

Wearily, he pushes himself up from the couch, careful not to spill his drink, and heads out front for some fresh air.

The Caelums’ drive is filled with enough string lights to illuminate Prompto’s way, even in the absence of the moon behind a thick cover of cloud. He pops his fangs out and strolls away from the noise of the party, the insistent, thumping beat of the music.

It’s a little chilly out, but his vampire cloak provides a little protection from the breeze. With his free hand, he wraps it around himself. He kicks at loose pebbles on the drive as he goes.

When he hears the telltale sound of an engine approaching, he feels an instinctive flash of fear — when it rounds a bend, however, he realises there’s only one set of headlights, rather than two. It’s a motorbike — a black Honda. Prompto can tell it’s Gladiolus, even with the shiny red helmet obscuring his face.

As the motorbike nears, it slows to a halt. Prompto toes awkwardly at the ground as Gladiolus flips the visor of his helmet and looks him over; it’s disconcerting, but Prompto’s a little pleased to see he showed up after all.

‘Prompto?’ he says.

Prompto runs a hand through his gelled-back curls. He mustn’t have done a very good job of his costume if Gladiolus picked him out so quickly in the dark.

‘You heading home?’ Gladiolus says.

Prompto bobs his shoulders in a halfhearted shrug. The sad thing is, he was tempted to — before Gladiolus showed up. As birthday-slash-Halloween parties go, this one has been as miserable as he expected.

‘I dunno,’ Prompto says. ‘Kinda not really in the partying mood any more.’

Gladiolus raps his fingers against the handles of his bike, then gestures with his head back behind him.

‘I can give you a ride, if you want,’ he says. ‘I got a spare helmet.’

Prompto takes a step toward the motorbike, then pauses.

He thinks of Noct — of how jazzed he had been about throwing the party. He can picture the exact look of disappointment on his face the moment he realises Prompto is gone.

‘Nah, that’s okay,’ he says. ‘I’ll stick around a little longer.’

Gladiolus shuts off his engine and climbs off, taking off his helmet and shaking his hair out of his face, where it’s come loose from its tie. It takes Prompto a moment to realise that Gladiolus intends to walk him there.

They pace side by side in silence, Gladiolus keeping himself between Prompto and the bike. Gradually, the noise of the party fades back in, growing progressively louder with each step.

‘You heading in?’ Gladiolus says, at the top of the drive. He flips down his kicstand, leaving his bike off out of the way.

Prompto hazards a glance at the front door, where a glow-in-the-dark skeleton hangs. He wonders if Noct has even noticed he’s gone; probably not. Chewing his lip, he shakes his head.

‘I’m gonna stay outside a sec,’ he says. ‘You go ahead, if you want.’

Gladiolus doesn’t budge.

With a shrug, Prompto moves and perches himself on the curb around the meticulously-planted flower beds that skirt the drive. Gladiolus paces over after a moment and takes a seat beside him.

‘Happy birthday, by the way,’ Gladiolus says. He seems a little awkward as he pushes the loose strands of his dark hair out of his face. ‘I… didn’t know if it’d be weird if I brought you something.’

Prompto shrugs. He rests his drink against his knee with one hand and holds his plastic fingers in the other, absently running his thumb over the canines.

‘It was Wednesday,’ he says quietly.

‘Oh,’ Gladiolus says. ‘Shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise.’

‘I don’t like to make a big deal,’ Prompto says meekly. ‘Pretty sure half the people here tonight don’t know who I am.’

He’s staring down at the brim of his cup when he feels Gladiolus gently touch his arm; when he looks up Gladiolus is grinning wryly at him.

‘Least you’re doing better than me,’ Gladiolus says.

Prompto can barely suppress a snort. If Gladiolus is trying to cheer him up, it’s working — in its own, twisted way.

‘I know this is a crazy idea,’ Prompto says, as he twists to face Gladiolus, ‘but maybe we could be friends? Y’know, since they’re kinda in short supply for both of us around here.’

Gladiolus narrows his eyes and watches him curiously. Prompto feels his cheeks burn under the scrutiny; he can’t help but wonder if it shows through the layer of white face paint.

‘All right,’ Gladiolus says. ‘You’re on.’


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor warning on this chapter for somebody having a seizure/convulsing. It's brief and it happens near the end.

Prompto stomps through the scattered leaves on the sidewalk, kicking them up as he goes. Noct asked him to wait after school — something about a project he needed to discuss with Mr. Franklin, the music teacher — and he’s been here for thirty minutes already.

Prompto has sent two  _ dude, where the hell are you? _ texts; a third might be overkill.

He sighs and shoots a look up at the school. There are still lights on in the building, although each time he looks there are less and less, as the teachers finish up and leave.

It’s cold out, and it won’t be long before sunset. With a huff he digs his hands into the pockets of his jacket and paces a little faster to stir some warmth into his limbs.

Noct finally emerges from the school building after another ten minutes. He jogs across the lot and slips out of the gate, slinging his backpack onto his shoulders as he hurries over to Prompto’s side.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Franklin never shuts up when you get him going.’

They’re headed for the Caelums’ tonight, as is the usual plan for the festivals of the year; Prompto remembers years gone by when they would trick-or-treat first, then return to the Caelums’ and have to endure pinched cheeks from the guests, along with statements of how adorable they looked in their costumes.

There are a couple errands to run first — Noct needs to pick up his robes from the seamstress, where they’re being mended, and there are a few odds and ends to grab from the magic shop for tonight.

The magic shop is the first port of call. It’s a cosy little place wedged in between a coffee shop and florist; Prompto has spent many an afternoon here with Noct, lusting after the various overpriced trinkets. There’s a crystal collection larger than any Prompto has ever seen, with a gigantic Amethyst geode at the centre of it.

Somnus’ Veil is busy when they get there, although it’s hardly a surprise with it being Halloween. Prompto can see people milling about within — a mixture of regular customers and curious first-timers, eager to try out the craft at the spookiest time of the year.

‘You wanna grab the candles?’ Noct says, withdrawing his list from his pocket and unfolding it. ‘I’ll get the herbs.’

Prompto shrugs, and they split up.

It’s hard to keep his mind on task, distracted as he is by the many beautiful items the shop holds. There are the grimoires and books of shadows, ready to be filled with their new owners’ words; the altar supplies, ranging from incense to ritual knives; the tarot decks, all lined up on their shelves beckoning passers-by in with ethereal box art.

The candles are kept in the corner, near the store’s collection of books. Prompto dawdles as he makes his way over and takes in the sights, as he always does, as if it were his first time.

There’s a musty smell to the place — like a forgotten corner of a library, where there are books whose pages haven’t seen daylight in years. Intertwined with the scent of herbs and incense, it's a comforting smell; it reminds him of his childhood, of somewhere safe and familiar.

He can see newer books on the shelves as he passes: everything from pulp fiction about werewolves and vampires to books detailing the history of witchcraft. By the shelves is a basket full of books on clearance, those too unpopular or damaged to retail at full price.

As he moves, his backpack snags on the basket and sets a torrent of books tumbling out. He swears as everything clatters to the ground around him, in spite of his best efforts at stopping the worst of it; while he grabs futilely at the basket to stop anything more from falling, two girls by the love spells section watch him with barely-stifled giggles.

He doesn’t think anything is damaged, but he drops to his knees and checks each book as he goes, just to be safe. He inspects each one as he places it carefully back in the basket, arranging it more neatly than it ever had been before his intervention.

He hesitates as he picks a book up — something old and stained with mold, the dust jacket long gone. The hardcover of the book is embellished with red print, bearing the title  _ Cernunnos: Embracing the God Within _ .

‘Ve— Vas...tiel,’ he says, attempting to pronounce the book’s author. 

‘Verstael Besithia.’

He twists, looking up; a man stands just over his shoulder, cutting an impressive figure in his elaborate coat with its sweeping tails.

The man reaches out for the book, and Prompto finds himself handing it out without thinking.

‘Ah,’ the man says. ‘This is very rare indeed. Out of print for several decades now. Quite a fortunate find, I’d say.’

Prompto sets the last of the books back into their rightful place in the basket, then moves to get to his feet. The man extends an arm and helps pull him upright.

There’s something about this stranger — about his sallow skin, the angular features of his face — that seems familiar. His hair is a deep red, almost the colour of wine, and the sight of it tugs at something in the back of Prompto’s mind, something he struggles to quite piece together.

Prompto watches him leaf through the book from back to front; watches as pages of alternating words and macabre illustrations breeze by.

‘It seems this once had a loving owner,’ the man says, with something of a smirk to his voice as he reads the handwriting on the inside cover. ‘One  _ Hadrian Argentum _ .’

It’s as though the place has fallen into total silence, and all Prompto can hear is the thudding of his own heart and the soft scuff of paper as this stranger turns the pages of the book. Prompto feels his mouth go dry as he watches the man glance through the book as if it were of no consequence at all.

He doesn’t even realise he’s reaching out for it until his hand grips the corner of it, tugging gently but insistently. When he meets resistance, he looks up to find the man studying him curiously with a glint in his eyes.

‘Something calling to you, dear boy?’ the man says.

All at once the resistance is gone, and the book is in Prompto’s hands.

‘It seems it wants you to have it,’ the man says. ‘Who am I to stand in the way?’

Whatever this book is — however it should have wound up in this store, on this day — it belonged to Prompto’s father, once. He hugs it to his chest; holds it close as if he can feel the beating of his father’s heart through the pages. 

When Prompto finds his voice again, it’s tiny and timid.

‘I… I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I didn’t mean to take it from you. I don’t even have any money.’

Reluctantly, he hands it back.

The man still watches him; Prompto can’t help feeling like he’s transparent — like his every thought is written on his skin.

‘A pity,’ the man says.

Meekly, Prompto turns away and heads for the candles. Even as he tries to force his mind back to his task, all he can think of is the book — and his father’s name inexplicably found within.

He gathers up the candles and tries to put it out of his mind, heading for the counter where Noct already waits.

‘What took you so long?’ his friend asks, with a teasing tone. ‘Couldn’t decide whether to get cream or off-white?’

‘Something like that,’ Prompto mutters.

He shoots a glance around the shop, but he can’t see the man any more — he could be anywhere, hidden behind the countless shelves of oddities.

Even as they’re leaving, he can’t quite shake the prickling feeling at the nape of his neck, and the feeling of regret over leaving the book behind.

* * *

 

There are costumes and painted faces at the gathering tonight — of course there are. He’s already spied Iris, seemingly loath to remove her pointy witch’s hat after a round of trick-or-treating. Gladiolus said he had taken her door to door, along with a few of their neighbours’ kids; he said it was likely her last chance at a proper Halloween, given that she had declared that she would be too old next year.

Those not in costumes have subtle touches to celebrate the season: a pumpkin hair pin, dangling spider-web earrings. Even Prompto’s mother has long nails dipped in fake blood at the ends of her fingers, a monster’s talons.

Prompto isn’t beside Gladio this time — he’s across the circle, at his sister’s side, half-heartedly attempting to simmer down her excitement somewhat. Prompto finds himself between Noct and his mother.

Regis steps up, and he’s resplendent with his hair hanging loose, wreathed in autumn leaves and purple blooms. For just a moment, his guard is down, and there’s a weariness in his expression so profound that Prompto feels it in his bones.

‘Thank you all for being here,’ Regis says, as a hush steadily falls over the circle. ‘As the harvest ends, we enter the dark months of the year. I’m sure you all know by now of the myths that brought about Halloween, or All Hallows’ Eve — of the faeries that inhabit our world and the other, and give us their blessing in preparation for the winter.

‘It’s a time for us to honour the dead, a time to reflect upon the cycle of life, death and rebirth. As the world prepares to slumber, so too must we make time for restfulness — to weather the cold months ahead.

‘It’s not all doom and gloom, however,’ Regis adds, and there’s a hint of a mischievous smile on his lips. ‘The night is still young and there are tricks and treats aplenty, for young and old. Before we light the bonfire, I thought we might join hands and take some time to relish the night, when the veil between our world and the next is at its thinnest.’

Noct’s hand is cold when Prompto takes it; his mother’s is warm, and she fidgets at his fingers once they’re linked. Whatever it is — whether it’s thoughts of his father, or of everything she’s had on her plate lately — he gives her hand a reassuring squeeze.

With his eyes closed, he’s a little more acutely aware of everything around him: the scent of the leaf litter beneath the trees, earthy and rich; the sound of the breeze rustling against the hem of someone’s robes.

He tries not to think of his father, but his mind inevitably goes to him, as it always does. He thinks of Halloweens of years gone by, when his father would dress up to bring him trick-or-treating. He thinks of the time he fell off his bike and twisted his ankle, and his father let him help with the pumpkin carving to cheer him up.

And then — the book, at Somnus’ Veil. How it had wound up in his hands, out of a dozen volumes in that basket; how he had chanced to look at that one, of all the others, and that stranger had flipped it open to find the name of Prompto’s father, of all things.

He shivers, and he can’t be sure if it’s the thought of it, or the late October breeze, or the strange dreaminess that Halloween always seems to bring over him.

The shiver spreads, and it’s like a current coursing through him — making the tips of his fingers and toes tingle with static.

Noct’s hand slips suddenly from his, as though recoiling from a flame; so does his mom’s. He opens his eyes, a question already on his lips, but before he can turn to either of them he sees— 

‘Regis!’

His mom nearly knocks him over in her haste to get across the circle; Prompto can do little more than stare at the man as he stands rigid, the muscles of his neck taut as he convulses. Clarus, at his side, already has a hand at his arm as he attempts — in vain — to help.

All around the circle, the others are steadily becoming aware, their attention turning to Regis — except Gladiolus. He’s staring at Prompto, his eyes wide.

Prompto’s skin still crackles; when he touches a hand to his head, his hair is standing on end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear, I wonder who that odd chap at the magic shop might have been?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto receives a gift; he and Gladiolus catch up.

An hour ago, the Caelums’ home was filled with the sounds of merriment — of children excitedly running around, of the adults chatting companionably.

The guests are gone now, any hope of cheer gone with them.

Regis had tried, of course; had told them to go on with the lighting of the bonfire, even as Clarus had ushered him inside. For a while it had been enough: a distraction. It hadn’t been long before the group dissipated, without their leader to hold them together.

‘You want me to stick around?’ Prompto asks, patting Noct on the arm.

His friend has barely said a thing since it happened — he looks at him blankly now, then blinks and, as if only just registering Prompto’s words, shakes his head.

‘Do you need a lift home?’ Ignis asks, from where he stands behind the couch.

His mouth is prim and downturned, but otherwise it’s impossible to tell how he’s taking everything. Prompto knows that’s how he is — he’s probably just as shaken up as everyone else.

‘I’ll drive.’

Prompto glances up; Gladiolus is in the doorway, Iris at his side. The girl’s eyes are red and puffy, her cheeks streaked with tears. She must have been scared senseless by the whole thing.

‘That’s okay,’ Prompto says, with a shake of his head. ‘I can walk.’

‘It’s not a problem,’ Gladiolus says. ‘I gotta take Iris home, anyways.’

When Prompto tries to hug Noct, his friend is barely responsive. He keeps glancing back out of the door, across the hallway to where the study is, its door closed.

‘You’ve got my number if you need anything,’ Prompto murmurs.

Numbly, Noct nods.

Clarus and Prompto’s mom are sticking around to look after Regis — and although Prompto doesn’t know why everybody had been so insistent that nobody call an ambulance, he’s glad Regis isn’t alone. 

He gathers up his things in silence and follows Gladiolus and Iris out to the door. They grab their coats from the hooks there, and Gladio leads them outside.

He’s taking the family car, and even though it’s strange to see somebody so covered in tattoos behind the wheel, he looks at home there, tall as he is. Iris files wordlessly into the back, leaving Prompto to slip into the passenger seat.

‘Where do you live?’ Gladiolus asks, firing up the engine.

‘It’s the apartment above Java Joe’s,’ Prompto says. ‘You know where that is?’

Silently, Gladiolus nods.

It’s not much of a trek across town — Prompto could easily have walked it alone — but he’s grateful for the company, even if nobody talks the whole way. He’s pretty sure Iris is asleep in the back seat, sprawled out across it with her jacket under her head like a pillow.

Finding parking is usually hell, but this late in the day the on-street spots are mostly empty; Gladiolus pulls up just outside and shuts off the engine.

‘Thanks,’ Prompto says, unbuckling his safety belt. ‘Keep me updated, I guess.’

He’s out of the car, on the sidewalk, when he realises Gladiolus is following close behind. His neck prickles and he wonders if Gladio expects to be let in, but then he realises Gladio has stopped.

‘Everything okay?’ Gladio asks, inclining his head.

‘Yeah,’ Prompto blurts. ‘Why?’

Gladio shrugs. He pulls the zipper of his sweatshirt up to close it beneath his chin, toying with the metal idly.

‘It was pretty intense back there,’ he says. ‘When Regis went down, everybody lost it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my dad so freaked out.’

Prompto looks down at his shoes; scuffs at a crack in the sidewalk. It had been a blur of activity as the adults of the group had rushed to help Regis, and yet somehow everything had moved impossibly slowly. Prompto had watched it all as though in his body and without it, and it had only been once his mother shook his arm and told him to help corral the children that he’d been able to snap out of it.

‘Has this happened before?’ he asks quietly. ‘Seizures?’

Gladiolus shakes his head.

‘I’unno,’ he replies. ‘I don’t know him too well. He was always just Noct’s dad.’

Prompto can’t say the same; Regis is one of the few people over the age of twenty who genuinely gives him the time of day, and to think of him as  _ just Noct’s dad _ feels strange. When he had seen Regis crumple to the ground, pale and weak, he had felt just as lost and scared as if Regis had been his own flesh and blood.

Gladio takes his wrist, and the feel of it startles Prompto so much he jerks his hand away.

Gladiolus sighs and shakes his head, taking a step back.

‘Just…’ he says, trailing off. ‘I’m here, okay? If you ever wanna talk.’

‘Yeah,’ Prompto murmurs. ‘Thanks.’

He watches as Gladio returns to the car and belts up before starting up the engine. With one last look at the window, he pulls away from the curb and rolls down the street.

It takes Prompto a little while before he can turn toward the door leading up to his apartment.

The coffeeshop below is closing up for the night, and he can see a couple of the workers puttering about within. He slips his hand into the front pouch of his backpack to grab his keys and almost trips over something as he moves to let himself in.

There’s a package on the ground, wrapped in brown paper and string. When he stoops to inspect it, his name is written on top of it in looping script.

His skin prickles as he picks it up and inspects it, weighing it in his hand. He tucks it under his arm and unlocks the door, letting himself in.

The apartment is freezing when he lets himself in, and when he checks the thermostat he finds it on the fritz  _ yet again. _ He drops his backpack, and the package, on top of his bed, then hunts around in the closet for the space heater.

It’s old and beat up with only one of the lowest heat settings working, but when he fires it up in his bedroom it’s enough to keep him from freezing to death while he undresses. All the while, as he gets ready for bed, he looks at the package where it sits innocuously on his bed, just waiting to be opened.

Once he’s under the covers, he finally tears it open. Bit by bit, he exposes more of it and — with little surprise, he realises — finds the book from Somnus’ Veil inside. When he flips open the cover there’s a letter tucked inside, with  _ Prompto _ handwritten on the envelope.

He rushes to open it, but hesitates as he slots a finger under the flap. This has already been such a strange day; he’s not so sure he can handle more intrigue and oddity. The more he deliberates over it, however, the more he realises he’s not going to be able to sleep for thinking about it.

With a sigh, he opens it and slides the letter out.

_ Prompto, _

_ The clerk at the magic shop was so very helpful in ensuring this would find its way to you. The perks of such a friendly town, I suppose; everyone knows where everyone else lives. _

_ I was particularly surprised to learn this book once belonged to your father. I had no idea you were Hadrian’s son. I once knew him, and your mother, very well. _

_ I’m uncertain whether you’ll understand the contents of this book, or if indeed they’ll interest you, however I assure you they make for a rather insightful read. Perhaps they’ll serve as useful to you as they did your father. _

_ Verstael was a lecturer at the local university — I believe your father was one of his students. A pity that he passed away a few years ago; I’m sure he would have had some stories to tell. _

_ May this find you in good health, and may you find what you are looking for. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Ardyn Izunia _

Prompto pores over the words a second time; at the end, after the signature, is a hand-printed mark that he doesn’t recognise, a jumble of lines and dots that seem meaningful somehow. He knows a little about runes from a fleeting interest in the subject, but it doesn’t look like it belongs to the elder futhark — not that he’s an expert, by any means.

Regis would know.

He ignores the pang in his chest and climbs out of bed, bringing the letter with him to his PC sitting in the corner. While he waits for it to boot up, he heads into the kitchen and fishes around in the refrigerator for something to eat, and returns to his room with tupperware full of pasta salad and a can of Coke.

It’s not going to be easy tracking down the meaning of the symbol — and he’s not so sure there’s any point — but at least it’ll keep him distracted from the whirlwind of his thoughts.

* * *

Noct isn’t at school the next day, which hardly comes as a surprise.

Prompto’s mom didn’t come home; he realised he hadn’t heard her come in when, bleary-eyed, he finally dragged himself to bed at three.

He’s no closer to figuring out what the symbol means, although he did stumble onto some interesting pages about sigils and their purported use in daily magic. He found one for healing, sketched it on a sheet of paper under Regis’s name, then slept with it beneath his pillow.

He had known it was just superstitious mumbo-jumbo, but still — something about it had made him feel a little better. The town’s legends around witchcraft had started somewhere; for better or worse, it’s in his family’s history.

He holds out hope that he’ll hear from Noct throughout the day, so he keeps his phone on vibrate, to no avail.

When he’s not checking his phone for texts and halfheartedly following along in class, he’s flipping through the book, keeping it hidden within his schoolwork from teachers’ prying eyes.

It’s pretty heavy stuff — the usual ramblings you might find in a book about the occult, although the author seems convinced of his claims that it’s really possible to conjure up the inner god. It’s hard to imagine his father reading this stuff, much less believing it, but Prompto devours it as if it’s a long-forgotten link to the past.

He’s immersed in a chapter about visions when the bell rings; he doesn’t hear it, and doesn’t notice his classmates filing past him out of the room. When his teacher clears her throat, he looks up in surprise and hurriedly pulls his things together before scurrying out into the hallway.

On autopilot, Prompto grabs what he needs from his locker and heads out of the building. He’s on his third try at unlocking somebody else’s bike when he notices; cheeks flushing in embarrassment, he moves to the right one.

‘Hey.’

He looks up; almost doesn’t recognise the tall figure towering over him in a sweatshirt with the hood drawn up over his head — but of course it’s Gladio. Once he gets the lock open, he rises to his feet and props the bike against his hip.

‘Hey,’ he replies.

‘You headed home?’ Gladio asks. ‘I’ll walk ya.’

Prompto gives a shrug. Pulling his bike alongside him, he moves ahead and Gladio falls in step beside him.

‘How’s Iris?’ Prompto says. ‘She seemed pretty upset.’

Gladio sighs.

‘Yeah, it spooked her. A kid she used to go to school with has epilepsy. First time she ever saw something like that was at a birthday party.’

Prompto looks down at the ground as he wheels his bike along.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ he says quietly. ‘’Bout when you asked me if I was okay last night.’

Gladiolus is quiet awhile, and Prompto sees him drum his hands distractedly against his thighs, making the chain looped from his belt jangle noisily.

‘Yeah?’ he says, eventually. ‘What’s up?’

Prompto takes a moment to pick his words — maybe it’s the self-induced exhaustion talking, but he’s had a lot of time to think on it.

‘It felt…’ he begins, searching for the right word. ‘I don’t know. It felt charged, last night? Like there was static in the air? For a minute, after Regis’s speech, I kinda felt… different.’

‘Different?’ Gladiolus says slowly.

‘Yeah.’

Neither of them speak for a while, and Prompto focuses on the soft, steady click coming from his bike as it rolls along.

‘It was like I was there,’ he says. ‘But… kind of… not? Does that make any sense?’

‘Like… out of body?’

‘Kind of?’ Prompto says. ‘I don’t know. Anyways. Maybe it’s like when dogs can tell when there’s a storm coming.’

At his side, Gladiolus snorts and Prompto glances up in surprise at the sound.

‘What?’ he protests. ‘What’s so funny.’

Gladiolus lifts his hands and shrugs.

‘You think you predicted it or somethin’?’

When he puts it that way, it  _ does _ sound ridiculous; Prompto feels his cheeks burn and ducks his head down into the collar of his jacket in an effort to hide.

‘Whatever,’ he mutters.

They pass Somnus’ Veil along the way, and it’s tough not to look into the window of the store front as if he might see the man there. 

_ Ardyn. _ He hadn’t recognised the name — doesn’t remember his parents ever mentioning it. He wonders if he should ask his mom about it, but the thought makes his stomach squirm like he knows it’ll just upset her if he brings up his father.

‘It’s weird,’ Gladiolus says suddenly. ‘When I looked at you, at the circle…’

Prompto looks at him expectantly.

‘Yeah?’

Infuriatingly, Gladio shakes his head.

‘Forget about it,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m exhausted.’

‘Me too, dude,’ Prompto says with a sigh.

Another silence settles over them, but before it can span on for too long, Prompto’s apartment comes into view. Java Joe’s is all lit up below, beckoning them in from the cold, and Prompto taps his tongue against his teeth thoughtfully.

‘Y’know,’ he says. ‘There’s nothing better than caffeine when you need a pick-me-up.’

Gladio shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatshirt, pulling his shoulders up in a shrug.

‘Not really a coffee kinda guy,’ he says. ‘Herbal’s more my thing.’

‘Well,’ Prompto says, fishing his keys from his pocket. ‘You’re in luck. This place has everything. You mind waiting while I bring my bike up?’

Gladio glances toward the door, then nods.

‘Sure. I’ll grab us a table.’

* * *

‘So your mom was a chef?’

They’ve been filling each other in on pretty much everything for the past half hour or so; Prompto can’t help but think Gladio has had a more exciting life up until now, but at least he seems interested in what Prompto has to say — boring as it might be.

Prompto nods and takes a quick sip of his latte. It’s already gone cold; he keeps forgetting it’s there every time they get wrapped up in conversation.

‘Pretty great, too,’ he says. ‘She wanted to set up her own restaurant someday but, uh…’

He doesn’t fill in the blanks; Gladio, to his credit, doesn’t ask.

‘She just works at the diner now,’ Prompto says, with a shrug. ‘She’s miserable, but it pays the bills. Sorta. Hah.’

He watches Gladiolus scratch his thumb against the pattern printed on his cup. Gladio looks up suddenly, catching Prompto’s eye.

‘What about you?’ Gladio says. ‘What do you wanna do when you graduate?’

Prompto is struck with the sudden, unassailable urge to shrink into his seat, under the table, and crawl across the floor out of the door of the coffee shop. It’s the question that seems to be on everybody’s lips this year, and he still hasn’t figured out how to answer it.

‘I— I don’t know, he stammers, staring down at his hands where they fidget in his lap. ‘I mean, everybody’s talking about college, but I hadn’t really thought about it.’

‘Ain’t talkin’ about college,’ Gladio says levelly. ‘Everybody’s got something, the big pipe dream. You, what? Write? You look like you write.’

‘A little,’ Prompto murmurs. ‘I’m not so good. I— I take pictures, though. I guess I’m kind of okay at it.’

He looks up in time to see Gladio quirk an eyebrow at him.

_ ‘Kind of okay?’  _ Gladiolus echoes. ‘What, you bein’ humble?’

Prompto issues a high-pitched, self-conscious laugh that seems to ring out entirely of its own volition.

He appreciates Gladio taking an interest — it beats the fake smiles and dismissive body language of his classmates — but the downside to it is that he actually has to  _ talk about himself.  _ His nerdy hobbies are just that: nerdy. He doesn’t really think the son of a highly successful businessman, fresh in town from NYC or  _ wherever _ , wants to hear about what he does with his spare time.

‘It’s not that big of a deal,’ Prompto says, waving his hand. ‘I mean, mostly they just get me to do stuff for the yearbook, which I guess looks good on college applications or whatever. They’ve used my stuff in the paper a couple times too but they’ll take anybody’s work.’

Gladio rests his elbows on the table and leans forward, clasping his hands under his chin as he levels Prompto with a stern glance.

‘You’ve been in the paper,’ he says. ‘And you’re  _ kinda okay _ ? Who got under your skin and made you so modest?’

Prompto forces himself to meet Gladiolus’s gaze. This guy, who seems like he never takes shit from anybody — not to mention being jaw-droppingly good looking on top of everything else — asking how  _ Prompto _ came to be so modest?

Either Gladio’s perspective on the world is considerably skewed, or he’s seeing something that Prompto isn’t.

‘Look,’ Gladio says. He lays his hands down flat, but he’s still leaning forward with an intent expression. ‘Most of the time Noct and me’ve been catching up, he never shuts about you. And you know him — he’s hard to impress.’

Prompto waves a hand dismissively, but he’s secretly a little pleased.

‘What about you, anyways?’ he says, more than happy to change the subject. ‘What do you wanna be when you grow up?’

Gladio finally sits back, dragging a hand through his hair. He dislodges some of the shorter strands from where he has it tied up; they fall forward over his brow.

‘My dad wanted me to follow in his footsteps,’ he says. ‘Took me a while to realise I don’t have a brain for business.’

‘And what do  _ you _ wanna do?’ Prompto says.

Gladio sighs. He twists his wrist, flicking a glance at his watch.

‘I should get going,’ he says, pushing his seat back. ‘You’re working tomorrow night, right?’

Prompto nods, getting to his feet as Gladiolus does. It niggles at him again — the feeling that he keeps jabbing at a touchy subject. He needs to learn to keep his mouth shut.

‘See you then?’ he says, with a halting smile.

‘Sure.’

He sees Gladiolus off once they’re outside, watching him go. The winter sun is low in the sky and makes his eyes water; he makes a visor out of one hand to block it out, and waves with the other.

At the centre of the town, standing sentinel over the square, is the clock tower; the light glints off the stained glass face of it, picking out a pattern amid the coloured shards.

For just a moment he thinks he recognises it, but then he blinks and it’s gone.


	7. Chapter 7

It’s a poorly-kept secret that Prompto is struggling with his schoolwork, yet for somebody who would sooner play Snake on his phone than read a full chapter, he’s been devouring his father’s old book page by page.

It’s gripping stuff, now that he’s invested — talk of dark magic, of tapping hidden reserves of power.

He remembers something his mother used to say to him when he was little; ‘An it harm none, do what ye will.’ The words had made little sense to begin with, but she had taught him slowly, with time: that in striving for purpose in life, what matters above all is ensuring no harm should come to others.

The things this book describes, the rituals and incantations, go against all of that.

_It is of vital importance that the reader dispense with the notion of god and man as separate entities. For it is within the very heart of man that god resides._

It had given him a chill to read these opening words, as though they weren’t meant for his eyes. Yet his father had read them too, sometime long ago; had brushed his fingers over these very same pages.

He brought his dinner up to his room today; he sits distractedly picking at it while he reads. When his phone buzzes on the stand by the bed, he almost doesn’t bother to check it.

_come 2 the palace. ignis wants 2 c the prestige._

Prompto wrinkles his nose. Magicians aren’t really his thing, although he’s seen enough awful movies by virtue of the fact that Noct wanted to go, but he’s not in the mood tonight. He’d rather curl up with the book and get lost in it until he passes out.

_sry dude. raincheck?_

He doesn’t bother to get comfortable just yet, knowing that it won’t be long before Noct fires a whining message of protest back at him, but his friend’s next text has him sitting upright with interest.

_cmoooon. gladio’s going 2. i told him u were coming._

It’s probably more than a little sad, but seeing Gladio has been the high point of his life lately. Between what happened at Samhain and school royally _sucking_ , it’s been good to have somebody to serve as a distraction. Even his shifts at Cor’s auto shop have become something to look forward to.

_ughhhh ok. but no butter on the popcorn this time. gross._

Noct texts along the details and Prompto quickly checks his appearance in the reflection. It’s just the movies with some friends, he tells himself, yet he finds himself slipping out of his white Pokemon t-shirt into something dark and long-sleeved that better fits him.

He turns sideways, inspecting his profile; now that the months are getting colder, he only seems to be putting on _more_ weight. He’s envious of Noct, with his ridiculous metabolism, able to eat just about whatever he wants with no need for exercise.

He grabs his phone, keys and wallet and hurries out of his room, swinging by the living room as he goes.

‘Going to the movies with Noct,’ he says, breezing past.

He can hear his mom calling out something about homework and dishes full of half-eaten food in his room as he goes, but he’s out the door before she can stop him.

* * *

Prompto is the last to arrive. He’s pleased to see the others already holding a spot in line when he spies the crowd that’s gathered tonight. It’s unusually busy for a Thursday night.

It’s been a little over a week since Samhain and Regis’s seizure. Noct seems better now, his father having made a full recovery, although his friend’s still a little pale when he strolls up alongside him. At least the smile Noct flashes seems genuine enough as he slings an arm around Prompto’s shoulders.

‘Good,’ Noct says, hanging off him companionably. ‘I was worried you’d flake out at the last minute.’

‘ _Dude_ ,’ Prompto protests. ‘You only _texted_ me at the last minute.’

Ignis gives a nod by way of greeting; Gladiolus is warmer, with a grin.

Gladio’s got a big leather jacket on with a hoodie underneath, his hair tied up to show off his fresh undercut. For a brief, fleeting moment, Prompto can’t help but think how good he looks like that — so comfortable in his own skin.

Cheeks tinged pink, Prompto looks away and focuses on the line ahead.

It doesn’t take long for the crowd to clear, at least, although by the time they get inside, Prompto’s fingers are icy-cold, even after shoving them into the pockets of his jeans.

Grabbing snacks takes longer than anticipated; the only seats left to them are close enough to the back, and Prompto finds himself wishing he brought his glasses as he squints down at the screen.

He’s wedged in between Noct and Gladio, with Ignis on Noct’s other side. Prompto can’t help but notice, with a little pang of pleasure, that Gladio lets him have the armrest between them.

‘So,’ Gladiolus says, leaning close. ‘I hear Scarlett Johansson’s in this.’

He smells good — like soap and aftershave. Prompto wonders, with increasingly hot cheeks, why he’s noticing this now.

‘Uh, I guess,’ Prompto stammers. ‘Not really my type?’

‘Yeah, me either,’ Gladio says. ‘More of a Hugh Jackman guy.’

Prompto feels a knot in his throat, and for a little while he’s not quite sure what to say.

Gladiolus puts paid to the issue by leaning in close again, and that smell is there once more — fresh soap on warm skin.

‘I wouldn’t say no if Christian Bale showed up on my doorstep, either,’ he adds, and when he pulls away he’s grinning in the dark.

* * *

The movie winds up better than anticipated — although Prompto is sure, as he files out after the others and stretches his stiff limbs, that the company was the best part.

Noct and Ignis are headed home; when Gladio offers to walk Prompto back to his place, he doesn’t even have to think about it.

It’s late, so the streets are almost empty, the stores long since closed. The street lamps are on, bathing the town in a warm glow.

After the cosiness of the movie theatre and the plush seats, Prompto feels the early-November chill all the more readily. He can’t help but shiver as he goes, wishing he’d had the forethought to bring a jacket.

‘Here,’ Gladio says.

He stops, wriggling for a minute as he slips out of his jacket. He offers it to Prompto with little thought.

‘I— I—’ Prompto stammers, but Gladiolus shakes his head and offers it all the more insistently.

‘You’re cold,’ Gladio says. ‘Take it.’

It’s not reluctance that makes Prompto hesitate. He _is_ cold, and even though they’re not far from his place, he’s gotten sick from less. He’s flustered, though, and even as he takes the jacket and slips it on — it’s laughably large, but it’s comfy and warm — he finds himself wondering why he’s acting like such a weirdo about it.

It’s just a jacket, right?

‘So,’ Gladio says, as they resume their stroll. ‘You wanna grab a bite, or something?’

Internally, Prompto kicks himself. He’d love to say yes, but he has a curfew, and he still has some homework to wrap up.

‘Sorry,’ he says. ‘Gotta get home.’

He can see disappointment register for a moment on Gladiolus’s face before he manages to get a rein on it and give a casual shrug.

‘No big deal,’ Gladio says.

‘I mean,’ Prompto blurts, suddenly worried that Gladio has the wrong idea. ‘I totally _would_ , but my mom’s kinda… protective? She’s cool with me staying over at Noct’s and stuff but she doesn’t know you.’

Gladiolus checks him gently with his elbow, and he’s wearing a mischievous smirk when Prompto looks up at him.

‘So tell her you’re with Noct,’ he says wryly.

Prompto drums his hands on his thighs, then lifts his wrist to look at his watch. His curfew is ten on school nights, and it’s a little before; he’s pretty sure she wouldn’t mind him staying out if she thought he was with Noct.

He sighs heavily, not because he’s going to refuse — but because he knows he can’t resist.

‘Fine,’ he says. ‘But when my mom finds out and literally murders me, I’m haunting your ass.’

He’ll have to avoid the usual spots: the diner, for obvious reasons, and the place where he and Noct go for Mexican, because his mom knows somebody who works there. He feels a little guilty slinking around knowing that she wouldn’t approve, but he sends her a vague text about hanging out after the movie without naming any names.

His battery’s a little lower than he’d like, but they shouldn’t be out for too much longer.

‘There’s a place on the town square,’ he suggests. ‘I don’t know if they do herbal, but…’

Gladiolus smiles, shaking his head.

‘It’s cool. Sounds great.’

They chatter while they walk; when they get to the coffee shop they’re on the subject of Noct’s dad, and how he’s been since the incident. There’s a lull while they find a table, and it endures as they browse over the menus.

‘So your mom keeps a short leash, huh?’ Gladiolus says, after they make their orders.

Prompto rolls his eyes.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I don’t know, it wasn’t always like this. She used to let me run around on my own when I was a kid, but then my dad died and…’

‘Noct told me he was gone,’ Gladiolus says quietly. ‘I didn’t wanna bring it up in case it was a sore spot.’

With a shrug, Prompto lifts his hand onto the table and runs his finger over the grooves of the pattern embedded in it.

‘It was a long time ago,’ he says. ‘It was different, when we still lived at the cottage — I’d come home from school and expect to see him sitting at the table scribbling in his notebook.’

‘He was a writer?’ Gladio says.

‘Uh huh,’ Prompto replies, with a nod. ‘We used to make up stories together when I was little. Kinda why I still write or… _try_ to.’

He can feel the tightness in his throat already; he cuts off sharply and looks around, anywhere but at Gladiolus. The last thing he needs is to start _crying_ in front of him.

‘You wanna talk about it?’

Gladio’s hand is on the table, reaching out for his. It would be so easy to just _take it_ — instead Prompto only looks at it until Gladio pulls it away.

‘It’s okay,’ Prompto says, awkwardly bringing his hand up to card through his hair. ‘I don’t wanna bum you out with my tragic backstory.’

The waitress brings their order — hot cocoa with cream and marshmallows, a slice of chocolate cake for Prompto, and a bagel for Gladiolus. While Prompto digs into his cake, Gladio taps absently at the handle of his mug.

‘My parents didn’t know what to do with me,’ Gladio says. ‘S’different with Iris. She doesn’t act up like I used to.’

Prompto lifts an eyebrow.

‘You were a wildchild, huh?’ he says, his voice muffled through a mouthful of food.

Gladio shrugs and rolls his shoulders, leaning back in his seat. He’s still looking down at his drink, as if pointedly trying to avoid Prompto’s eye.

‘I was never really _there_ in school,’ Gladiolus says. ‘Never focused. I was the one with all the report cards going home that said “smart, needs to try harder”. Somehow got into a half-decent college like my old man hoped, but I barely scraped by.’

‘You dropped out?’ Prompto asks, setting his fork aside.

Gladio nods.

‘Not right away,’ he replies. ‘I stopped showing up to class. Stopped turning in assignments. Couldn’t bring myself to admit I wasn’t good enough, so I guess a part of me hoped they’d do it for me.’

His voice has gone toneless and flat, almost as if he’s lost interest. There’s a distance in his eyes that tells Prompto there’s more to it than that.

‘Things were… rough,’ Gladio murmurs. ‘I hated college, I was away from home so I didn’t have anybody to turn to, and I just got outta a pretty heavy relationship. So now I’m here.’

For a moment Prompto just watches the change of emotions that ripple across Gladio’s face as he fights to hide them. As he manages to get something of a neutral expression in place, Prompto reaches out and touches his fingers to Gladiolus’s where they’re wrapped around his mug.

‘Maybe this is shitty timing,’ Prompto says, ‘but even though all of that sucked, I’m glad it brought you here. I never would’ve met you otherwise.’

Gladio lifts his glance to meet his, and his lips curve just slightly in a fraction of a smile.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I guess so.’

* * *

They sit in the town square long after, perched together on one of the benches alongside the fountain.

The water has shut off for the night, but the place is still beautiful in its own way — lit up in blue by the moon, the soft sound of ornamental trees swaying in the breeze. Any cars that drive by now are few and far between, so it feels as though they have the world to themselves.

Prompto’s still nestled away within the borrowed jacket, and even though he’s warm enough now he sidles up as close to Gladio as he dares, as if clinging to the heat of him.

‘Are you sticking around for Christmas?’ he asks, playing with the zipper on the jacket.

He feels Gladio move beside him as he nods.

‘Our family’s kinda all over the place. Getting everybody in the same state is impossible.’

Prompto makes a thoughtful sound and lets the zipper drop.

‘So I’ll get to see more of you,’ he says. ‘I mean — y’know, Yule and everything. If you’re going.’

His chest feels tight, his breathing too fast. He can’t tell if he needs to hurl or if this — whatever it is — feels _good_. Every time Gladio moves it’s like a spark arcs between them and he has to fight to calm down.

Gladiolus is quiet: too quiet. When Prompto twists to look at him he’s watching him silently, intently.

‘Maybe I’m way outta left field here,’ Gladio says, ‘but I really like you, Prompto.’

Hearing the words out loud — so openly, so candidly — makes Prompto’s heart stop. He feels his eyes go wide, his mouth drying up as his heart picks up again and threatens to beat right out of his throat.

So maybe he _hasn’t_ been misinterpreting this whole time.

‘I— uh—’ he stammers, looking quickly down at his hands in his lap. They can’t quite seem to decide what they’re doing, fidgeting one moment and stopping dead the next.

‘You…?’ Gladio prompts. ‘Like me as a friend? It’s cool, I understand.’

‘No!’ Prompto exclaims, a little too loud. ‘I mean — I’m just a little…’

Gladiolus clears his throat, muffling it in his hand, then leans against the backrest of the bench. Prompto feels it shift under his weight.

‘Surprised?’ Gladio offers.

‘Well… yeah.’

Gladio shrugs.

‘I’ve spent too much time pretending to be something I’m not,’ he says. ‘I’m sick of letting things slip through my fingers.’

Prompto feels the warmth of Gladiolus’s leg through his jeans all the more intently; he looks down at their legs pressed together, and at Gladio’s hand resting against his thigh. He thinks he could probably reach out and take it, but even after what Gladiolus just said, he’s scared.

What if Gladio is just messing with him?

 _No._ He wouldn’t do that.

‘Do you…’ Prompto murmurs. ‘Are you saying you wanna go with me?’

Gladio laughs, and for a moment the sound sends a jolt of worry through Prompto. He _is_ screwing with him; that must be it.

‘I mean, if that’s what you want,’ Gladio says. ‘I figured we could see where it goes.’

The knot of anxiety unravels in Prompto’s stomach, replaced with a pleasant warmth. He turns to look at Gladiolus and finds him watching him with a smile; the next thing, Gladio’s lifting a hand and brushing the pad of his thumb against Prompto’s cheek.

All Prompto can think, as Gladiolus steadily bridges the gap between them, is that he probably has chocolate in his teeth. The next thought is fleeting, though no less insistent: he’s never done this before, and Gladio _definitely_ has.

It doesn’t seem to matter any more, however, when Gladio’s lips meet his.

They’re warm, in spite of the cold of the night, and there’s a rasp of stubble against Prompto’s lips as he parts them slightly. Gladio’s hand slips into his hair, a gentle nudge signalling for him to angle his head so their noses don’t knock, and for a little while Prompto is able to let his brain shut off as instinct takes over.

It all floods back inevitably, as he starts to wonder if he should be doing more — if he should have his hand in Gladio’s hair, if he should try to move things along. Does Gladio want to have sex?

_Shit._

He breaks away, flustered, and he hopes and _prays_ that Gladiolus can’t see that his cheeks are burning in the light of the moon.

‘Too much?’ Gladio says, wincing.

Prompto shakes his head hurriedly, grabbing Gladio’s hand as he slips it from his hair.

‘ _No_ ,’ he says. ‘No. Seriously. I just… I’m still taking it all in.’

Gladiolus nods his head in understanding and slots his fingers between Prompto’s, letting their hands drop into Prompto’s lap.

‘We can take it as slow as you want,’ he says. ‘I’m not goin’ anywhere.’

Prompto feels like grinning like an idiot, but he manages to contain it well enough — there’ll be time for that when he gets home. In the meantime he leans back against the bench, lowering his head to rest it on Gladio’s shoulder, and feels Gladio’s head tip against his.

He doesn’t think it could get much more perfect. Then — with a jolt, he remembers he’s breaking curfew.

‘Crap,’ he mutters, slipping his hand out of Gladio’s. ‘Aw, crap.’

When he pulls his sleeve up to look at his watch, it’s eleven-thirty. He’s not just breaking curfew any more, he’s setting it on fire.

‘I gotta go,’ he says, hurriedly standing up. ‘My mom’s gonna kill me.’

‘Walk you home?’ Gladio offers.

‘Not a good idea,’ Prompto says. ‘She thinks I’m with Noct, so when she sees _you_ …’

He shrugs out of his jacket, but Gladiolus puts out a hand to stop him as he rises to stand at his side. He pulls it straight, sliding the zipper into place and pulling it closed.

‘Keep it,’ he says. ‘Til I see you again.’

For all of Prompto’s panic over being in trouble, he’s miraculously able to forget all of it as Gladiolus leans down — and he has to stoop a _lot_ to make up for the difference in height — and presses a kiss to his lips.

‘Call me?’ Gladio says, as he steps back.

Prompto licks his lips.

‘Yeah,’ he murmurs. ‘I mean, if I’m not literally dead.’

Gladiolus chuckles sympathetically, backing up and giving a little wave.

It’s hard to watch him go when Prompto would rather do more of the smooching — when he thinks of the grilling that probably awaits him at home for being so late, he’d _definitely_ take the smooching, any day.

Still, he lets Gladiolus go and gives a wave of his own, unable to quite look away.

Gladiolus Amicitia really likes him. _Him._

It’s only once Gladio is out of view that he lets the giddiness take over, punching the air in excitement. Maybe his mom will kill him, but it was totally worth it.

He turns, shoving his hands into the pockets of the borrowed jacket as he goes, and picking up to a jog. He’s already trying to think of excuses; she might not mind him being out when she knows he’s with Noct, but dallying so late on a school night is just asking for disaster.

He’s in such a rush that he doesn’t notice the man standing ahead, in the centre of the path leading out of the square; when he finally looks up he’s too close to divert without making it obvious.

‘Ah,’ the man says, and he steps out of the shadow as he speaks. ‘Prompto. I’d hoped our paths might cross again.’

Prompto draws to a halt, looking up at him in his overcoat and hat, his hair tucked away in his scarf. The apprehension that had filled him on crossing paths with a stranger late at night is gone now; he knows this man — met him at the magic shop.

It’s Ardyn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I used the jacket trope again. Sue me. I'm a sucker for tol letting smol borrow their jacket, okay?


	8. Chapter 8

Ardyn doffs his hat as he approaches Prompto, holding it to his chest while he makes long, elegant strides to bridge the distance between them. His coat swishes as he moves, dancing about him with each step.

‘Rather late to be out wandering, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘Especially alone.’

Prompto hugs his arms around himself, feeling the heavy leather of Gladio’s jacket enshroud him.

‘I wasn’t alone,’ he says. ‘I was just with friends.’

It’s almost easy to miss the way Ardyn’s eyes flicker about, as if hunting for said friends. Once he’s satisfied that they’re alone, he closes the last of the gap between them.

He’s tall, Prompto realises for the first time — ridiculously tall. Gladio’s still growing but he’s lofty for his age, and Ardyn still manages to make him seem short. Maybe it’s the sweeping tails of his coat; his grand, larger-than-life demeanour.

‘Have you had a chance to read your father’s book?’ Ardyn says, leaning close.

Reflexively, Prompto takes a step back.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘You didn’t have to do that, though. Buy it for me, I mean.’

Ardyn waves a hand with a flourish.

‘Nonsense,’ he replies. ‘That book called to you — I could tell. It was only right that I help it on its journey into your hands.’

Prompto fidgets, training his eyes on the intricate patterns embroidered on Ardyn’s coat. They’re almost dizzying, as though they’re moving across the very surface of the fabric.

Prompto blinks and looks away.

‘Is any of it legit?’ he says, quietly. ‘I mean… I know magic is made-up, but…’

He feels stupid and childish as the words spill from his mouth. It’s not that he  _ believes _ ; wants to, perhaps, but he’s old enough to know better than to buy into any of the fantastical stuff he believed as a kid.

Ardyn arches an eyebrow. He’s still leaning close, and his voice comes out in a conspiratorial hush.

‘Oh, my dear boy,’ he says. ‘Is it?’

There’s something uncanny about this man; something unsettling, and yet familiar. He feels like they’ve met before, like there’s more to him than the stranger who happened upon him in the magic shop. The more Prompto thinks on it, however, the more ridiculous it seems.

Magic isn’t real; Ardyn’s just toying with him.

‘Look around you,’ Ardyn says. He sets his hat back on his head, the perfect jaunty placement to complete the image of eccentricity. ‘Look at how the moon caresses the trees; look at how the wind makes the leaves dance.’

Prompto tries not to roll his eyes as he glances half-heartedly about the square. It’s nice, sure — and there’s a certain stillness to the place that brings quietude to his heart — but it’s not  _ magic. _ Not the kind that the book describes.

‘So much has been lost to your generation,’ Ardyn says. ‘Cell phones and reality TV shows, all  _ so very shallow. _ Do you know why it is that you gather at Regis Caelum’s home for the festivals of the year?’

Prompto hadn’t realised Ardyn knew Regis, too, but then he supposes it makes sense. It’s a small town, with no room for secrets or strangers. It doesn’t occur to him to ask how Ardyn knows about the gatherings, but then they’re hardly clandestine.

‘It’s like… a tradition,’ Prompto answers. ‘Something to do with the town’s history.’

Ardyn gives him an appraising look, and as he sweeps past Prompto into the heart of the square, Prompto finds himself following.

‘You’re correct, in part,’ Ardyn says. ‘Although traditions have to start somewhere, don’t they?’

Prompto has a feeling Ardyn’s about to explain, but he gives a murmured  _ ‘Yeah’ _ in response nonetheless.

‘You may have passing knowledge of how this town was founded,’ Ardyn says. ‘Settlers from elsewhere, all drawn here. It was said that the river running through it had magical properties — others claimed that it was a convergence of the earth’s energies, all gathered at one point.’

Ardyn moves to the bench where Prompto had sat only minutes earlier with Gladio; it seems he might take a seat, but instead he rests a hand on the back of it and gestures for Prompto to sit.

He doesn’t speak again until Prompto has done so; even as it dawns on Prompto that he was rushing back home before running into Ardyn, he finds his curiosity over what the man has to say to be a more immediate concern.

‘Are you aware of the wheel of the year?’ Ardyn asks.

Silently, Prompto nods.

Ardyn gives an approving tip of his head, as though impressed that Prompto has even a basic grasp of the concept.

‘You’ll know, then,’ Ardyn continues, ‘that the festivals have been a time of worship for pagans for centuries. Samhain, for example, is the festival that marks the onset of winter; a time when the spirit world is close enough to touch. A favourite of the witches of old, as I’m sure you know.

‘When you gather at the Caelums’ home at each festival, you’re paying private tribute to the earth, and to the goddess and the god. Now — Regis may not use these names, but he holds them in his heart, as does your mother.’

‘My mom?’ Prompto echoes, his voice a reverent hush.

‘Of course,’ Ardyn replies, with a languid flick of his hair. ‘Your mother, your father, Regis and his wife… and I, too. There was a time when we were all rather close-knit, the lot of us, long before you were born. A time when we used to gather beneath the full moon, much as you do now. Our methods were different then, of course, though the intent was much the same.’

A shiver winds through Prompto, and he can’t quite decide if it’s unpleasant or not. This man — this beneficent stranger, whom he met by sheer chance — taking part in gatherings with his parents, celebrating the festivals in a circle of tightly-clasped hands.

‘Look around you,’ Ardyn says, for the second time tonight. ‘Let your eyes come unfocused, and listen to the sound of my voice.’

It should be ridiculous — it should be stupid and silly and a waste of time — but Prompto does as he’s told, afraid that if he doesn’t, he’ll miss out on something that changes things forever.

He half-closes his eyes, seeing the world through the strands of his eyelashes. He keeps his gaze directed at the trees ahead, although he focuses on nothing in particular.

Beside him, Ardyn leans close, the plumes of steam his breath makes of the air curling against Prompto’s face.

‘Everything has energy,’ Ardyn says. ‘An essence. You and I, the trees, the stars. There was a time, long before civilisation, when humans felt this energy all around them — it was as simple as welcoming it in.’

Ardyn’s voice is low at Prompto’s ear.

‘Breathe deeply,’ he says, ‘and slowly. Let the air fill your lungs to the rhythm of the breeze as it stirs the trees.’

With each careful, measured breath, a drowsiness seems to wash over Prompto. Yet as his body relaxes, he starts to notice little things he hadn’t been aware of before: the tickle of his hair against his neck; the weight of the jacket on his shoulders, as though it were Gladio’s embrace.

He lets his senses wander beyond himself, beyond the rustle of Ardyn’s coat and the sigh of his breath, beyond the steady  _ drip-drip-drip _ of water trickling from somewhere within the fountain’s inner workings; he probes outward, as though the breeze were an extension of his limbs, and he feels the leaves as if they were whispering by his ear, feels the moonlight as if it were kissing his skin.

‘Look now,’ Ardyn murmurs, and his voice seems to weave into the rhythm of the world.

When Prompto glances about, still in his dreamlike state, it’s as though the town is transformed. The trees seem to  _ glow _ , and it’s not the illumination of the moonlight, he realises — it’s something from deep within them, leaching energy into the air.

The air, too, seems to shimmer — the strands of the breeze floating and whirling in front of him like gossamer.

But there’s more to it, as he looks about and drinks it all in. Where the buildings stand around them, where the roads lie paved in cobblestone, street lamps lighting the way, the more he tries to look he can’t see — well,  _ anything _ . It’s like a void yawns everywhere man’s industry has touched, and there are little wisps of light where human or animal has passed by, but even those faint traces fade the more he watches.

‘The town,’ he says, breathless. ‘The buildings. They’re… like a blackhole.’

‘Precisely,’ Ardyn says, his voice still at Prompto’s ear. ‘Even here, where the earth’s energy is so strong, it’s starting to weaken. Cell phones and cars, computers and TVs. All of it disrupts this energy; absorbs it, destroys it. But it can still be found, even in the busiest of places, if you are only willing to look.’

Prompto opens his eyes fully, and the shimmering world around him doesn’t quite so much vanish as bleed away into the ether. As it fades, he feels an emptiness swarm into his heart to take its place.

‘This is why you gather at the festivals,’ Ardyn says. ‘To find that energy again; to attain the stillness needed to let it touch your hearts.’

He moves, finally sitting beside Prompto. He gives a slight hisses as he lowers himself, as though in pain.

‘You have felt it, haven’t you?’ Ardyn says. ‘As though your senses are heightened. You can feel the warmth of everyone linking hands around you, all joined as one.’

Ardyn doesn’t wait for an answer — as a child transfixed with excitement, he springs to his feet and gestures grandly about them, his face lifted to the sky, exulting.

‘Do you think, in light of all this,’ Ardyn says, ‘that you could believe in magic?’

Speechless, Prompto nods.

* * *

Prompto’s eyes are strained with exhaustion; no matter how much he rubs at them, he can’t quite seem to get rid of the itch behind them that only sleep will cure.

He knows he’s in deep trouble — deeper even than when he’d initially planned to head home at eleven-thirty, because now it’s after midnight and his only excuse is that he whiled away the hours speaking to a strange man with an English accent.

He could explain that it’s someone his mother used to know, of course, but Ardyn had asked him not to.

‘Some surprises are best waited for,’ Ardyn had said. ‘I’ll find her when it’s time.’

Prompto quickens his pace a little, not that rushing will make much difference now. Honestly, he’s surprised his phone hasn’t already blown up with frantic messages demanding to know where he is, but when he takes it from his pocket he suddenly understands.

When he presses the home button, nothing happens. He holds the power button on top, and still it won’t come to life.

_ Crap. _ The battery must have died.

The lights are on when his apartment comes into view, and the sight of them — not beckoning him in with a warm welcome, but shining out into the night like the beam of a searchlight — makes his stomach flip.

He’s dead. He’s figuratively, metaphorically and literally dead.

He snatches his keys out of his pocket and opens the lock, hurrying up the stairs. It’s only as he’s opening the inner door to their apartment that he realises he’s still wearing Gladio’s jacket, but by then it’s too late; as if summoned by the creak of the door’s hinges, footsteps scurry down the hall toward him.

His mother’s face registers worry, at first, then relief. Then, as inevitable as the punishment that she’ll mete out, anger.

‘Where the  _ hell _ were you?’ she demands.

This isn’t  _ You got an F and I’m very disappointed in you _ ; not even  _ You broke that expensive vase and I’m more upset that you lied _ . This is full-on, straight-up,  _ I won’t kill you, but you’ll wish I did. _

He’s never been more scared in his life.

‘I went to the movies with Noct,’ he says. ‘We saw  _ The Prestige _ . We hung out for a while after and I lost track of—’

‘No,’ she snaps, waving a hand as she interrupts him. ‘Do  _ not _ try to tell me you were with Noct. I called Regis and he said Noct and Ignis got home safely  _ two hours ago _ and you weren’t with them. Two hours, Prompto. You ignored my texts, and you didn’t think to send me a message in all of this to tell me where you were?’

Her cheeks are bright red, like she’s been shouting; he’s surprised she isn’t right now.

‘My battery’s dead,’ Prompto says.

Big mistake.

Her eyes widen in disbelief and she steps forward, arms crossed over her chest. He can feel the anger coming off her in waves.

‘Your  _ battery _ is  _ dead?’ _ she echoes, shaking her head. ‘When has that ever been an excuse to come home  _ two hours _ after curfew? Do you know how worried I was? Noct says Gladiolus was supposed to walk you home. Did you even tell  _ him _ where you were going?’

Prompto feels guilt weigh his stomach down, making it leaden. If he had just told her that he was with Gladio, maybe she wouldn’t have been so worried — he had been so convinced that she wouldn’t approve of him wandering around with a tattooed guy two years older than him that he had lied. And it  _ had _ been a lie; no amount of omitting the truth made it any less of one.

‘I was with Gladio,’ he says, speaking into his collar as he stares down at his shoes.

‘What?’

He lifts his chin a little, trying again.

‘I was with Gladio.’

When he finally dares to look up and meet his mother’s eye, she’s lost for words, mouth hanging open. She keeps shaking her head as though she could do it enough to make this all go away. Prompto wishes she could.

‘You were with Gladio?’ she repeats. ‘For two hours? Why didn’t you  _ say that?’  _

He watches her eyes flit down, as if taking in his jacket for the first time. He wonders if she can tell from the quickening of his heart just what happened tonight.

‘Is that his jacket?’ she says.

She’s quieter now, and there’s something in the flatness of her voice that’s so much worse than the anger.

‘Yeah,’ he murmurs, lifting his shoulders in a shrug. The jacket seems to weigh so much more now, the comforting warmth of it gone. ‘It was cold. He let me borrow it.’

‘You stayed out all that time with him,’ his mother says, ‘and you’re wearing his jacket? Prompto, I— were you  _ with  _ him? He’s nineteen, for chrissakes!’

He can’t help but wonder, with a rush of heat to his cheeks, whether it’s Gladio’s age that bothers her, or something else. With a surge of defiance, he looks her in the eye as he replies.

‘And I’m seventeen,’ he says. ‘Remember? I’m not a kid any more, Mom.’

Her eyes flash dangerously, and he knows he’s struck a nerve. It’s too late to backpedal now, and when she opens her mouth he almost flinches in anticipation.

‘Callista.’

Prompto looks up; his mother, in turn, freezes and angles her head toward the source of the voice.

Cor stands in the doorway to the kitchen, stern as always — but Prompto thinks there might be something like mercy in his eyes.

‘It’s late, Calli,’ he says, levelly. ‘Why don’t we discuss this in the morning?’

‘You’re staying over?’ Prompto says.

In front of him, his mother closes her eyes and takes in a breath, blowing it out slowly.

‘Go to bed, Prompto,’ she says.

He doesn’t try to protest; when she turns away, heading toward Cor, he moves to his bedroom and shuts the door behind him with a snap.

He’s shaking as he sheds Gladio’s jacket and lays it over the back of his chair. He’s not sure if he wants to cry or scream — what’s worse is that he knows he has to go through all of this again in the morning.

How did a night that had been so wonderful turn into this?


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy these borrowed moments of bliss, Prompto. They won't last much longer...

Prompto takes a quick glance down at his watch. He might have enough time if he rushes.

And if he doesn’t get caught in the process.

This is week three of his indefinite grounding, and okay — maybe it’s not the wisest idea to test his mom’s authority, but it’s not like she gave him a choice.

He skipped the last periods of the day, with promises from Noct to cover for him; he hurries through the quieter streets of the town now, keeping hidden in case he happens to run into her.

He’s headed for the library. It had seemed like an odd suggestion at first — somewhere quiet, surrounded by people reading — but he can see the sense in it now. It’s close enough to home that he won’t be late, and he could arguably use it as a cover if he gets caught.

Prompto spots him waiting outside and hurries over, casting a furtive glance about as he goes.

‘Ardyn,’ he says. ‘Sorry it took me so long. I had to take the side streets.’

‘Quite all right,’ Ardyn replies. ‘Did you bring it?’

Prompto slips his backpack from his shoulder and unzips it, letting the top corner of the book show.

‘Good,’ Ardyn says, with a curl of his lips. ‘Shall we?’

Ardyn pushes the door open for him with a flourish; after a pause, Prompto goes through ahead of him.

* * *

‘It won’t happen overnight,’ Ardyn says. ‘It takes discipline.’

They’ve been at this for the better part of forty minutes, and Prompto’s already weary.

Maybe the library hadn’t been the best plan after all, with its bright lights — they aren’t exactly conducive to concentration.

‘Have you been practicing?’ Ardyn asks, peering at him shrewdly.

Prompto feels himself wilt under the man’s gaze. It might be fair to say that he hasn’t been completely focused on it with everything going on — and with his mother watching his every move for a misstep — but he figures it’s not all his fault. Winter break is coming up in a month and school just seems to be getting more frantic with each day.

‘I’m trying,’ Prompto says meekly. ‘I promise. I’ve just got a lot to deal with right now.’

Ardyn seems satisfied with the reply, turning back to their earlier task.

‘Perhaps we should begin small, instead,’ he says.

There are objects laid out across the table, and Prompto watches as Ardyn gathers them all up. The intent of the exercise had been for Prompto to move one of them — even just a little — by looking at it.

He can’t help thinking that maybe it’s not a lack of practice that’s the problem, but the fact that _magic isn’t real._

Ardyn tears a sheet of paper from his notebook and crumples it into a ball, setting it down squarely in the middle of the table.

‘It weighs next to nothing,’ Ardyn says. ‘All it needs is the slightest nudge. Now — try again.’

Prompto breathes in and out slowly, closing his eyes as Ardyn had told him to.

‘Don’t think of it as moving it with your mind,’ Ardyn says. ‘Such parlour tricks are for performers.’

He’s close by Prompto’s ear, his voice low and hypnotic.

‘Imagine a strand of energy,’ Ardyn says, ‘like a current of electricity. Picture it growing and strengthening with every breath you take.’

Prompto tries, forming an image of an arc of electricity in his head.

‘Picture the paper in your mind’s eye, ready to be moved by your will. Picture the energy as it surrounds the paper, as it grasps it. Now imagine yourself letting that energy pour out, moving the paper with it.’

Prompto can almost see it in the darkness of his closed eyes — a miniature bolt of lightning splaying out against the ball of paper, sending it rolling.

Somewhere in the library, somebody coughs quietly and it throws his concentration off, brushing the image from his mind like grains of sand.

He opens his eyes, frowning slightly, and he thinks — he’s pretty damn sure, too — that he sees the little ball of paper rock slightly in its place.

‘I did it?’ he says, his voice rising in disbelief. ‘I did it!’

A couple of tables over, someone clears their throat angrily and he ducks his head, keeping low and casting a furtive glance around.

Ardyn’s looking at him with an eyebrow raised in interest. He doesn’t quite seem impressed, but there’s something, at least, and it’s good enough for Prompto.

Prompto’s looking at Ardyn’s face when it happens; rather than see _it_ , he sees the reaction ripple across Ardyn’s features, in the widening of his eyes and the slight parting of his thin lips. When Prompto snaps his head toward the table, he’s just in time to see the ball of paper dropping onto its surface, rolling away and tumbling over the edge.

‘How—’ he stammers, shaking his head and turning to Ardyn. ‘I— I wasn’t even trying!’

Ardyn is quiet, eyes affixed on the spot on the table where the ball of paper used to be, as if it were still there.

‘Perhaps concentration isn’t the issue,’ he says thoughtfully, standing up. ‘More accurately, a _lack_ of concentration.’

He picks up Prompto’s book, and Prompto can’t help watching it hawkishly as though afraid the man might damage it somehow. Ardyn sets it down in the centre of the table, then moves to stand behind Prompto. When Prompto tries to glance around at him, Ardyn places hands on his shoulders and nudges him to face the right way.

‘Close your eyes,’ Ardyn says, his voice a purr by Prompto’s ear.

Prompto fights back a shiver and does as he’s told.

‘Tell me,’ Ardyn says. ‘What were you thinking of, when you made it move?’

Prompto gives a shrug; it seems like a stupid question. He wasn’t thinking about moving the ball of paper — but then, maybe that’s the point.

‘I guess I was thinking that maybe I impressed you,’ Prompto says, his cheeks growing hot. He’s glad Ardyn can’t see them.

‘Hm.’

Ardyn’s hands press down a little on Prompto’s shoulders. It should be a comforting touch, he thinks, but his skin crawls a little beneath it. He wishes Ardyn would stop.

‘Is there someone who makes you happy?’ Ardyn says. ‘A friend, perhaps. A… _girl?_ ’

Prompto knows he’s blushing all the worse, and the collar of his shirt seems too tight, Ardyn _too close._

‘I— I—,’ he stammers. ‘I don’t—’

‘Now now, Prompto,’ Ardyn drawls. ‘No need to be shy. Unless…’

He leans by Prompto’s ear, and it’s everything Prompto can do not to _shudder_ when he feels Ardyn’s breath on his skin.

‘Unless it’s not a member of the fairer sex after all,’ Ardyn says.

It’s hard to tell if his tone is one of mocking, but with him so close, with his words striking a nerve, Prompto just wants him _gone._ He bites his tongue, feeling it stew up within in — the urge to escape, the urge to thrash his way free like an animal in containment — and he knows that if Ardyn doesn’t just _stop_ he’s going to explode—

There’s an intake of breath from Ardyn, and all at once he’s gone from Prompto’s personal space, pulling away as if in shock.

Prompto hears the bang before he opens his eyes; feels the gust of air as the book drops with a violent thud to the table.

He’s fast enough this time to see the pages fluttering where the book settles.

When Prompto looks at Ardyn, jaw hanging open in surprise, he expects to find the man watching him angrily, or with surprise. Instead, Ardyn stands with a forefinger to his lips, regarding the book with an expression of intent concentration.

‘Fascinating,’ Ardyn says. ‘Certainly something we can work with. Now — let’s move on to something else, shall we?’

* * *

Prompto almost wishes he hadn’t cut class; by the end of his session with Ardyn, he can feel a dull throb behind his eyes that doesn’t seem like it’s going to go away anytime soon.

It’s all better when he steps outside and finds Gladio waiting for him; with a timid wave, he waits until Ardyn is gone and hurries over. When he stretches up on tiptoes, Gladiolus leans down to kiss him, scooping arms around his middle.

‘How’d you know I was here?’ Prompto says, a little suspiciously.

‘Noct told me you were meeting somebody,’ Gladio says, chasing his first kiss with a peck on Prompto’s nose. ‘Thought I’d surprise ya.’

It’s more than a surprise — it’s a much-needed reprieve. Apart from a couple shared shifts at Cor’s shop, they haven’t seen each other face to face since that fated night at the fountain. Even though they’ve been texting almost every day, Prompto’s been a little worried that Gladio might get tired of waiting for his prison sentence to be over.

‘Cutting class for elicit study sessions, huh?’ Gladio says wryly.

Prompto feels the sudden urge to kiss the smirk right off his lips; he’s happy to indulge it, letting his mouth linger against Gladiolus’s, slipping his arms around his neck.

‘Pretty much,’ he says, once he finally, lazily pulls away. ‘Wanna walk me home? Well — to the square?’

Maybe seeing with Gladio might not be the best idea.

‘Sure,’ Gladio says. ‘In a minute.’

Prompto doesn’t need to ask what should be the cause for delay; he sees it in Gladio’s amber eyes just as he leans in close. Gladiolus practically sweeps him off his feet with the force of the kiss, and even though they’re standing outside the library of all places, indulging in a _very_ public display of affection, this is the closest Prompto has felt to content in weeks.

Where Gladio’s hands sit in the curve of his spine, Prompto feels them knead gently, balling his jacket up and tugging it so that cool fingers can slip under his shirt. The contact is electric — Prompto feels desire, warm and lazy and delicious, circuit through his system with every pulse of his heart.

He feels drunk when the kiss ends. When he looks up into Gladio’s eyes, they’re glazed, like he’s in a stupor.

‘You’re not gonna be grounded _forever,_ ’ Gladio says, ‘right?’

Prompto just about manages a chuckle before he lets his forehead drop against Gladiolus’s chest, breathing in the smell of him.

‘We should get going,’ he says, with a reluctant groan. ‘Last thing I need is for my mom to ground me for _another_ decade.’

They walk hand in hand, once more taking the paths with less traffic. It’s a small town so it takes less time than Prompto would like, and soon he can see the fountain.

On a whim, he tugs at Gladiolus’s hand before they round a corner and pulls him back, out of view, and leans against the wall. He tugs Gladio close so that their bodies are pressed together — threads needy fingers through his hair where it sits loose around his jaw and uses it to tug him down, engaging in a needy, rushed kiss.

It’s so much mashing teeth and frantic tongue and heavy breathing that Prompto’s sure it’s probably bad as kisses go, but he thinks it can’t be all that terrible when he feels Gladio’s hands pull his hips in close.

Gladio _seems_ to be enjoying it, at least.

‘All right,’ Gladio says, against his lips, voice low and hoarse. ‘Get outta here before I drag you home with me.’

As Prompto’s heart hammers within his ribs, he can’t help but think that might not be such a bad thing.

With a kiss decidedly more innocent than the last, Prompto squeezes Gladio’s hand and lets go of it, slipping away.

‘See you at work?’ he says, pausing by the corner.

Gladiolus nods; he blots at his lips, and Prompto watches his adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

It’s hard not to turn back and look, but Prompto manages it until he gets to the far side of the square. Once there, he glances back and sees Gladiolus watching, hip leaning against the wall. Gladio lifts an arm to wave, and Prompto waves back.

He still feels like he’s swallowed butterflies by the time he lets himself into the apartment; he rushes to his room and goes in, locking the door behind him.

He barely pauses to set his backpack down before flopping down on the bed, face-first. He can still remember Gladio’s hands on him, his _lips_ … With a muffled squeal, he kicks his legs in excitement and flips over to look up at the ceiling and the day-glo stars painted above him.

So he’s grounded maybe forever, but it’s not all bad.

With a content sigh, he heads for his closet where Gladiolus’s jacket still hangs — ‘Keep it,’ he’d said, ‘till I can get you something to replace it’ — tugs off his own and slips it on, wrapping himself in the smell of Gladio where it still lingers on the collar.

Prompto heads for his bed, picks his alarm clock up from his nightstand, and sets it on the middle of the blanket. He kneels, leans on the mattress until he’s eye level with it and closes his eyes.

He thinks of Gladio, and how he could probably never get sick of being held in those tattooed arms; thinks of what it would be like to slip under the covers of his little single bed with Gladiolus and get lost in the scent of his skin.

This time, with Gladio still in his thoughts, he probes his mind outwards as Ardyn had shown him to do at the fountain — imagines the threads of warmth, radiating from the core of him with every sweet, happy thought about Gladio, stretching out around him. He pictures strands of light picking the clock up, and when he opens his eyes he can see it: can see a glow surrounding the contraption of cheap plastic as it drifts gently into the air.

He makes it do an experimental flip; makes it swoop through the air as if driven on the rails of a rollercoaster. At once concentrating and not, he keeps his thoughts on that glow as he brings the clock over to his nightstand and sets it down carefully in its usual spot.

The laugh that bursts from his lips is one of triumph — of elation.

_He did it._

‘Prompto?’

The clock tips over; with a jolt, he shoots to his feet and wriggles out of the jacket, hurriedly stuffing it into the closet. When he gets to the door and unlocks it, he’s probably flustered but he doesn’t care.

A frown flickers across his mom’s face when he peers around the door. Let her make whatever assumptions she has to about what he was up to — better than her figuring out the truth.

‘Cor’s coming over for dinner tonight,’ she says. ‘Just thought you should know.’

He can see her eyes flitting past him, into the room; even though there’s nothing to be seen, he reflexively shuffles into her field of view.

‘Cool,’ he says.

There’s something… odd about her, he thinks. Not _bad_ , just different.

‘Cor’s been here a lot lately,’ he says. ‘Everything okay?’

When she gets a little bashful, lifting her hand to brush self-consciously through her hair, he knows his gut instinct was right. Some impulse, less thought than instinct, makes him unfocus his eyes and use Ardyn’s trick, and when he sees the glow surrounding her it’s soft and warm, the way his had been when he thought of Gladio.

‘Actually, um,’ she says, tipping her head and flushing ever so slightly. ‘That was kind of why he’s coming over. You… mind if I come in?’

When he opens the door, she casts a little glance around the room before perching herself on the edge of his bed. He wheels his swivel chair out from his desk and settles into it, giving a shrug.

‘Soooo,’ he says. ‘What’s up?’

She’s nervous, he realises. He can feel it pouring off her in waves — he’s sure that if he were to look, he’d see that glow around her take on a more jagged, uncertain shape.

‘We were going to talk to you together, when he was here,’ she says. ‘But… I don’t think I can wait that long.’

Prompto’s starting to get anxious. When he casts his senses out to check the energy in the room, however, the warmth outweighs the nerves. Whatever this is — whatever she wants to tell him — it’s good news. At least, it is to _her._

As his senses brush her, he sees her expression falter slightly, and he quickly pulls it all back in.

‘Prompto,’ she says, leaning forward and taking his hand in both of hers. ‘Cor and I have… Well, we’ve known each other for a very long time. He was like a brother to your dad. He was always there for me when…’

She doesn’t need to finish the thought; Prompto feels it like a slug to the stomach.

‘Honey,’ she continues, and she’s so tentative he wishes she’d just spit it out. ‘God, I never thought this would be so hard. Prompto, Cor and I… We’re seeing each other.’

Prompto blinks, still waiting for her to get to the point as if the words have gone right over his head. It takes him entirely too long to replay it over and understand what she was saying.

‘Wait,’ he says. ‘You and— and _Cor?_ ’

She nods just slightly and inclines her head, like she’s watching carefully for his reaction.

‘Honey?’ she says, for the second time. ‘Are you… Is that okay?’

It seems like a ridiculous question, at first. It’s none of his business — right?

He remembers the infrequent occasions she had tried out dating when he had been younger, and he had seen it as a betrayal; when he hadn’t been able to understand how she could even think about loving somebody else liked she had loved his father.

It seems different now, but… Cor?

‘Yeah,’ he finds himself saying, even though he’s not even remotely sure he means it. ‘Yeah, that’s okay.’

At least seeing her face light up makes him feel better, even if only a little. She lets go of him and lifts her hands covering her mouth briefly before letting them drop into her lap.

‘Good!’ she says. ‘Oh, sweetheart, I’m so _relieved._ We were so worried you’d be upset with us springing it on you like this, so suddenly, after all this time.’

‘After all this time?’ Prompto echoes, shaking his head in confusion. ‘I thought… I thought this was something that just happened.’

Her eyes open wide, and he feels that apprehension seep back into the air — intermingled with guilt.

‘Well,’ she says, failing to meet his eye as she rubs at the nape of her neck. ‘We’ve been talking about how to come to you about it for… Well, for a while now.’

Prompto blinks.

‘How long?’

‘Since Mabon,’ she says.

She’s still not looking at him; anxiety still comes off her in waves.

He tries to reason with himself that that’s not so long — that to kids his age, two months might seem like an eternity, but it’s different when you’re older.

But then so much can happen in two months, too; new friendships can be forged, strangers can appear in town. In two months, he and Gladio will have probably already talked about taking things to the next level and—

Oh _God._ Cor and his mom must have…

_Don’t go there, Prompto. Do not go there._

‘Oh,’ he says simply. ‘Okay.’

‘So you’re…’ she begins, finally looking him in the eye. ‘You’re all right? With us?’

When he shrugs, he manages to come across more casual than he feels. He’s busy trying not to imagine the guy he’s known as _Uncle Cor_ for years kissing his mom, much less doing other things with her.

‘Yeah,’ he says. He gets up from his chair, ushering her over to the door. ‘Seriously, it’s cool.’

She stands a little reluctantly but makes her way over at his beckoning, stepping out. She turns once she’s in the hallway, looking at him hopefully.

‘You can talk to us about this all you want over dinner,’ she says brightly. ‘Ask us whatever you want. We know things won’t change right away, but Cor wants you to know he’s always going to be there for you to confide in.’

‘Okay, Mom,’ Prompto says hurriedly. ‘Thanks. I’ll see you at dinner.’

She seems a little bemused, but he closes the door nonetheless and locks it once more, finally exhaling a breath that feels as though it had been held in throughout their conversation.

His mom and Cor. _Huh._

He still doesn’t know what to make of it, but he knows one thing for sure: he needs to tell Noct right away.


	10. Chapter 10

Prompto breathes slowly, feeling his chest rise and fall where he sits cross-legged on the grass, eyes closed.

His mom had seemed reluctant to end his grounding, but with all of his good behaviour — or at least his success in avoiding getting caught — and Cor at her ear, the gentle voice of persuasion, she had finally given in.

He’s not exactly celebrating his first day of freedom how he’d planned over the past month, but he tries to push thoughts of how he could be with Gladio instead out of his head.

He can feel the cold — and probably a little wet, too — seeping through the seat of his jeans, but like everything else he lets the sensation pass, telling himself he’ll worry about it later.

He lets his attention alight on the sounds around him — the swaying of the trees, the rustle of the breeze through the blades of grass, the faint rippling of water in the pond. Ardyn always makes him start out like this, and at first it had been distracting to let the sounds wash over him, bringing background noise to the fore of his awareness.

Now, he lets it make a gentle soundtrack to his focus as he feels the world swell around him and drinks the energy in.

It comes to him from the animals, first — the birds in the trees, the rodents scurrying about in the undergrowth, even the bugs, slow and sluggish in the decline of the year. When he feels the warmth of it enshroud him, he steadily starts to feel it come to him from the trees and plants, too: dormant, but still very much alive.

When he feels his skin prickle with energy, as though it were static crawling across the surface of his skin, he channels it all into a single strand and pictures it winding forward, toward the field mouse that lies weak and wounded in front of him.

He pictures a warm white glow surrounding it, enshrouding it in gossamer. Pictures tiny little hands soothing the creature, smoothing its fur and patching up its injuries.

When he opens his eyes, it’s like he can see the after-image — a faint light clinging to the mouse’s frail form. As the glow dissipates, he sees the tiny chest, heaving in laboured breath, steadily slow and stabilise. The little eyes, black and dim, seem shiny and bright now as the mouse looks around, then dashes away from him, vanishing into the tall grass.

Prompto feels alive — electrified. He can’t help it as he lets out an excited little burst of laughter and looks over at Ardyn where he leans against a withered tree.

The man studies him in silence for a while, and Prompto feels the uncomfortable awareness of being weighed up and measured — as though it’s not the act that Ardyn appraises, but Prompto’s own worth. Whatever judgement Ardyn comes to, he merely nods his head and pushes away from the tree, unfolding his arms from across his chest as he walks.

Prompto tries to rise, but he can barely push himself up, so jittery and full of energy as he is. It’s like he’s had an overdose of caffeine: not entirely unpleasant, but unsettling nonetheless.

‘Steady, now,’ Ardyn says, putting a hand out to keep him where he is. ‘You need to ground yourself first. The exchange of energy — particularly one so powerful — tends to leave even the best of people disoriented.’

Ardyn talks him through it; Prompto places his hands flat on the ground to either side of him as instructed. Through the cold, damp grass he lets his excess energy flow into the earth, feeling it steadily leach away along with the jittery, jangling nerves.

He feels more himself as Ardyn helps him to his feet: calmer. He can’t help but notice that he feels a little empty, too — that the world around him seems less bright, the colours muted somehow.

‘I can’t believe I did that,’ he says, hugging his arms around himself. ‘I can’t believe that actually worked.’

‘You’ve been working hard at this for weeks, my boy,’ Ardyn says. ‘Imagine the things you could do with even more practice.’

‘Like what?’ Prompto replies, narrowing his eyes.

Ardyn waggles a finger, dismissive.

‘Best not get ahead of yourself just yet, hm?’

They walk side by side through the park, silent as they go — Prompto is left to his thoughts, and to dwell on exactly what it might that Ardyn has planned for him. Prompto knows he’ll find out in due course, but he’s an impatient student; now that he’s in the swing of things, he’s been devouring Ardyn’s lessons by day, and reading his father’s book voraciously by night.

‘You’ll have your Yule gathering soon, no?’ Ardyn says idly.

Prompto nods.

‘Next week,’ he says. ‘It’s always kinda been a tradition that we have our big Christmas thing then. Made it kinda weird at school, but hey.’

Ardyn doesn’t seem to react, so Prompto lets the subject drop. He gets the feeling sometimes that he annoys the guy — bombarding him with useless information. Then again, most adults make him feel like that.

Ardyn brings him only as far as the edge of the park, where he lingers in the shade of one of the evergreens lending green to an otherwise barren array of flora.

‘We might yet have time to meet once more before Yule,’ he says. ‘After that I’m sure you’ll be busy with all your festivities. Would this Friday suit?’

Prompto has to think for a while, drumming his hands on his thighs as he goes. He sees Ardyn eye him up distastefully and stops immediately.

He has a date with Gladio that day, but it’s right after school — Gladio has a shift at the shop right after. There should be enough time for him to squeeze in a lesson with Ardyn, long before curfew.

‘Yeah, Friday,’ he says. ‘Is eight okay?’

Ardyn’s smile is sweet enough, although something about it twists at Prompto’s stomach. When Ardyn nods and they finally part, Prompto’s almost glad to be out of his company.

* * *

‘You distracted?’

Prompto looks up from his chocolate cake and blinks a couple times at the face staring at him. He had been so lost in his own little world that he had somehow — and he’s hard-pressed to figure out  _ how _ — forgotten he was with Gladiolus.

Gladio looks a little worried, but maybe that’s Prompto’s imagination.

Prompto gives a shrug.

‘I’m fine,’ he says.

Gladio gives him the eyebrow-raised treatment, like he doesn’t believe it — and yeah, maybe Prompto’s not doing such a good job of being in the moment right now, so he can’t say he blames the guy.

‘You barely touched your food,’ Gladiolus says. ‘And it’s chocolate. That ain’t like you.’

He’s got a wry smile on his lips, at least, so Prompto knows he’s not pissed.

Prompto picks up the piece of cake he had been pushing absently around his plate and shovels it into his mouth, chewing pointedly. When he’s done, he swallows and pokes his tongue out.

‘There,’ he says. ‘That better?’

Gladio’s lips track down to Prompto’s mouth; his smile only seems to grow as he leans over the table and uses his thumb to wipe some unseen crumb of chocolate from Prompto’s lips.

‘Better,’ Gladio says.

NASA can probably see the coffee shop where they sit from space, lit up by how brightly Prompto flushes. Prompto gives himself a moment of reprieve by taking a gulp of his hot cocoa, although it’s not very hot any more.

‘You’ve been pretty busy lately, huh?’ Gladio says, slipping his hand down to cover Prompto’s on the table. ‘Noct’s starting to think you’ve got somebody else on the side.’

Prompto splutters on his drink, setting the mug down with a thud. Even the implication that he could be cheating on Gladiolus — as if he could  _ get  _ somebody else, if he were dumb enough to be looking — is too ridiculous to comprehend.

‘No way,’ he blurts, once he’s recovered some of his composure. ‘That’s like… not even something I’d think about.’

Gladiolus shrugs, but he seems a little withdrawn like he’s putting on a facade.

‘I mean,’ he says, sniffing. ‘Ain’t like we ever said we were exclusive.’

Prompto stares down at his plate, using his fork to nudge the cake around. He knows right now would be the perfect time to bring up the subject of how to classify their relationship, but he can’t quite force the words out. Even the past month of sneaking around with Gladio has been great — he doesn’t want to ruin that.

‘Been thinkin’,’ Gladio says gruffly. When Prompto glances up at him, his eyes are on their hands where they sit laced together on the table. ‘Bout us. And where we’re goin’.’

Prompto’s stomach lurches. He hadn’t realised Gladio had been considering things between them like that, but something about his tone makes Prompto feel like maybe this isn’t a conversation he  _ wants _ to be having.

‘Yeah?’ Prompto replies. His voice sounds all strained and weird.

Gladio shrugs again, and god _ damn _ Prompto wishes he’d cut the cool indifference.

‘I know your mom ain’t too sweet on us bein’ together,’ Gladiolus says. ‘And I know you got college applications to think about. I know I said before all of this, maybe we could just see where it goes.’

Prompto feels like his head is spinning from trying to keep up with Gladio’s train of thought.

‘Gladio,’ he says quietly. ‘Please just say it.’

Gladiolus coughs sharply into his hand to clear his throat. He looks a little hot under the collar; Prompto knows the feeling.

‘Guess what I’m sayin’ is,’ he replies, ‘it’s getting kinda hard calling you my  _ friend.  _ Figured  _ boyfriend _ fits a little better, y’know? Make it official.’

It’s been such a weird day — a weird  _ year, _ thus far — that Prompto has to stop and process what Gladio is saying. He remembers how Gladio had stammered his way through first saying that he had feelings of the more-than-friends variety; it’s still jarring to think that this cool, confident guy, still freshly moved from some big-city lifestyle, could be shy about… well,  _ anything. _

Prompto wets his lips and gives a tiny, timid little nod.

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘I… I’d really like that.’

He sees the tension practically  _ pour _ off of Gladiolus, and in turn he feels the lighter for it. As a shy grin spreads across Gladio’s face, Prompto finds himself smiling, too.

‘I mean,’ Prompto says suddenly. ‘Are we talking  _ Facebook _ official or…?’

Gladiolus snorts.

‘Dork.’

He gives Prompto’s hand a squeeze, and it draws Prompto’s glance down.

If he’s already been accused of being a dork, Prompto figures he might as well go all out — he doesn’t even try to curb the thought of how nice his hand looks where it fits with Gladio’s, pale against his tan.

There are little nicks and bruises across Gladio’s knuckles, probably from working in the shop. He has a tendency to be less dainty at work than Prompto, so it’s not unusual to see him covered in oil and scrapes on the best of days.

Prompto’s not even focusing on anything, really, when he starts pulling in energy from the people around him. He turns his eyes to Gladio’s and smiles, and he feels the energy pulse slowly down his arm to where his fingers are laced through Gladiolus’s. With a brush of his thumb over Gladio’s knuckles, he feels the skin there begin to knit together.

It’s easier than the mouse had been; it’s over in an instant. When he pulls his hand away, ostensibly to push his hair out of his face, he sees that Gladio’s skin is undamaged, better than new.

A ripple of something crosses Gladio’s face; he rubs at his hand as if taking care of an itch, and flicks a glance down. For just a second he seems to frown, but then he’s looking at Prompto again with his full attention.

‘So what are the perks of being official now?’ Prompto says. ‘I  _ do _ get perks, right?’

Gladio’s smirk says it all, even before he leans over the table so that he can’t be heard above the noise of the other patrons.

‘I could tell you,’ he says. ‘But it’d probably be more fun to show you sometime.’

Prompto’s pretty sure, as Gladiolus sits back in his seat with his smirk still firmly in place, that his heart just skipped a beat.

* * *

Prompto is overbrimming, like his brain won’t quite shut off. After a pretty intense makeout session in a lesser-followed street, it’s not like he can really be blamed. He would have happily stayed out for hours with Gladio, but he’s committed to getting home at a decent time each day — part of his ongoing rehabilitation back into normal, non-grounded society.

He can still feel the ghost of Gladiolus’s lips on him, the trace of calloused fingertips up the back of his shirt, even as he unlocks the front door.

His mom’s not home, maybe working a shift at the diner that she forgot to mention. It’s probably a good thing he had cake so he won’t go to bed with an empty stomach.

He locks the door to his bedroom when he gets in, for good measure. Almost by habit, he heads for the closet and trades out his outer layers for Gladio’s jacket where it still hangs wedged into the corner.

It’s easier with Gladio’s smell so close, he soon came to realise, during his little bouts of experimentation. Drawing on the acute little pang of happiness that accompanies thoughts of their time together had been the final kick he needed to get himself in the zone.

He pulls the zipper all the way up and flips it so that he can catch it between his lips, nibbling on the edge of it idly while he thinks.

He hasn’t had a pet since the goldfish he forgot to feed all those years ago, and he’s not so sure he wants to test things out on living creatures without Ardyn around to keep it in check. When his glance lands on the potted plant in the corner of his windowsill, long dead now thanks to the chill of the winter and his own neglect, he figures it’s a good place to start.

He grabs it and sets it on his desk, kneeling on the ground in front of it. Closing his eyes, he casts his senses out.

It’s harder here, away from nature. He can feel sporadic bursts of something that might be energy, but it’s all jumbled and discordant — some people walk by outside from time to time, but with the cars and the interference of all the electronics around, he can barely get a good grasp on anything.

He sighs and pushes himself up, letting himself out of his room and heading for the kitchen.

There’s a cactus in the centre of the table, tiny but stubborn, and it’s about the only thing that counts for  _ living _ in the apartment that isn’t the rat that his mom suspects has set up base under the floor.

Back in the bedroom, he sets the cactus — much more lively and green than his own pathetic plant — down on the desk.

He almost isn’t surprised when he feels right away how different the energy of the cactus is. It’s hardier, less willing to give itself up to him; he figures it would have to be, to survive such extreme conditions out in its native habitat. He coaxes something out of it in the end, though, and when he’s drawn enough into himself, he casts it into the other plant.

It’s not instantaneous, like it had been with Gladio. He even thinks it isn’t working at first, but then he sees the tender stems of the flower begin to stir as if by some unseen breeze. It doesn’t turn to green, like he expects it to; instead it begins to sprout outwards and upwards, shedding brown, barren leaves for new green buds.

He flicks a glance back to the cactus, pulling energy from it once more — as it finally begins to surrender to him, he moves the energy in turn to the other plant.

It’s a wonder to watch: a dead, pathetic thing blossoming anew. He watches with amazement as purple petals unfold and burst open, positively brimming with life; he’s so rapt that he barely scares a glance for the cactus.

By the time he drags his eyes to it, it’s withered and grey, all the life gone from it.

A sick feeling hits him, square in the gut. He quickly stops the exchange, pulling it back from the flower, but before he can get anywhere he hears the front door slam shut. With a guilty lurch, he jumps to his feet, but the footsteps that come through the door continue past his room and down the hall.

He can fix the cactus later.

He hides it behind his back as he brings it out, tiptoeing toward the kitchen and setting it swiftly down on the table. His mom hasn’t noticed him yet, so he turns back with the intent to leave unseen.

‘Sweetheart?’

She looks exhausted when he turns to her — wearier than he’s seen her since the night Regis collapsed. Dark circles ring her eyes, and when he casts his senses towards her she’s a mess of energy, both her own frayed nerves and the residue of other people’s emotions. Impatience, he thinks. Anger.

‘Bad day?’ he says.

She sighs and scrapes her honey-coloured hair out of her face, leaning back against the countertop behind her.

‘You could say that,’ she mutters. ‘Maybe it’s just me, but everybody’s in an even worse mood than usual coming up to Christmas this year. Everybody knows you take it out on your waitress when you’ve had a crappy day, right?’

All he can offer is a sympathetic smile.

He watches her turn for the fridge, and he knows she’s going for the half-empty bottle of wine before she ever opens the door.

It comes to him, like a voice in his head — a subtle little suggestion. She’s stressed, and stress is all energy; if he can take away energy, move it someplace else, maybe he can manipulate it.

He’s only half-paying attention as he watches her putter around, grabbing a wine glass from the cabinet above the sink. He tunes out the sound of the liquid hitting the bottom of it as she drains the bottle, and turns his attention instead to the jagged lines of energy around her.

He tries to think of it as smoothing it all out — like pulling a tangled wire free. He coaxes it with a gentle touch, careful not to make too drastic of a change in case she notices, and by the time she turns back to him her shoulders are less slumped, her expression a little less weary. The burst of triumph he feels is enough to drown out the tiny part of him that wonders if maybe this isn’t the sort of thing he should be messing with.

She takes a sip of wine and he sees the last shreds of discomfort vanish from her face as she shuts her eyes in pleasure.

‘Okay, yeah,’ she says, setting the glass aside. ‘That was  _ exactly _ what I needed.’

She even manages a smile when she looks up at him, and he finds himself smiling right back.

‘So what about you?’ she says. ‘How was your day?’

_ School sucked, and then I brought a mouse back from the brink of death. Oh, and I made out with my boyfriend that you don’t approve of before I got home. _

‘Nothing to report,’ he replies smoothly, with a shrug. ‘I’ve got some homework, though. Should probably get on that.’

She watches him curiously, and he wonders if maybe she’s going to call him out on being the one to put homework first. Instead, she merely nods her head.

‘All right, honey,’ she says. ‘Let me know if you need any help.’

He’s halfway back to his bedroom when he hears her muttering to herself; when he glances back on the way through his door, he sees her holding the cactus in her grasp, inspecting it with a frown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/ghostmallovv)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for this chapter goes in the end notes, as it's mildly spoilery.

Some song by Metallica plays softly over the CD player, but Prompto isn’t paying it much attention.

Gladio’s room is almost uncomfortably warm, and it seems like every time Prompto sheds a layer, it’s not enough. It doesn’t help that Gladiolus is on top of him, already out of his shirt, his skin burning into Prompto’s.

It had been hell sneaking around for weeks while Prompto had been grounded, but this more than makes up for it — heated kisses, placed diligently over every inch of skin not hidden by his shirt, and gentle hands tugging needily at the hem of it.

‘It’s so hot,’ Prompto whines, fanning futilely at his face while Gladio takes a break from leaving bruises all along his collarbone.

‘It’s the thermostat,’ Gladio says, with an apologetic smile.

Prompto can’t help but watch a bead of sweat roll out of Gladio’s hairline and down his neck. He’s still looking there, a little spellbound, when Gladio plucks at the hem of his shirt.

‘Why don’t you take this off?’ he suggests.

Prompto grimaces and pulls the shirt from Gladiolus’s grasp, straightening it out to hide the excess bits of flesh that he’s sure are probably exposed over the band of his jeans. He knows his shirt doesn’t exactly hide where his stomach is pushed up into rolls where he lies, but that doesn’t mean he wants to give Gladio a firsthand view of it.

‘It’s cool,’ he says dismissively. ‘I’ll live.’

He knows probably as well as Gladiolus does that he’s deflecting when he delves his fingers through Gladio’s hair and pulls him down into a kiss, and he hopes for a minute that he’ll get away with it. Soon Gladiolus is pulling away, however, and looking at him seriously with one hand resting gently on his thigh.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘You know you don’t need to be self-conscious, right?’

Prompto shrugs. He can feel his cheeks burning, as much from embarrassment as the heat of the room.

It’s bad enough that he still wonders sometimes why Gladiolus is with a nerd like  _ him, _ without his weight playing into it, too. It’s weird how moments like this, where they get swept up in each other, can make Prompto feel so good and yet so inadequate.

Gladiolus leans close and touches his lips softly to Prompto’s.

‘You don’t need to do anything you’re not comfortable with,’ he says. ‘I wouldn’t make you do that. But if you’re shy ‘cause you think I won’t like your body, you’re an idiot.’

Prompto lets out a snort of derision and rolls his eyes. It’s a sweet sentiment, but he can tell when he’s being lied to in an effort to make him feel better.

‘I mean it,’ Gladio insists.

He licks his lips, smoothing his hand down Prompto’s body, tracing it down the inside of his thigh in such a way that it makes a delicious shiver wind right through Prompto. As Prompto’s eyelids flutter shut, Gladio moves to his ear, his voice hot and heavy.

‘I like you for who you are, Prom,’ Gladiolus murmurs. ‘And I like how you look. You’re beautiful.’

It’s like fingertips walking up the back of Prompto’s spine: a tingling sensation that snakes up his back, making him shudder. With anybody else, he’d doubt Gladio’s words — assume that he was just saying these things to get into his pants. Somehow, he knows that Gladiolus would never do that.

Gently, Prompto nudges Gladiolus out of the way, just enough that he can sit up. He grabs the hem of his tee and, after a moment’s hesitation, pulls it off. He sets it down on the floor and lies back on the bed once more as if awaiting Gladio’s scrutiny.

Gladiolus doesn’t even look; he just moves his hand to the curve of Prompto’s waist and leans in to kiss him once more, slipping his tongue between Prompto’s lips.

Soon, it doesn’t even matter that Prompto’s out in the open. Nothing changes — Gladio doesn’t treat him any differently. As the kisses grow more heated, there isn’t even room in Prompto’s thoughts for feeling self-conscious.

He hears a soft  _ pop _ from lower down, and the tearing sound of a fly being opened. When he glances down, Gladio’s tugging at his own jeans down his hips.

For all this had seemed inevitable, Prompto feels a sudden lurch of fear. It’s not that he doesn’t want it — Jesus, it’s pretty much  _ all _ he thinks about when they’re not together — but the immediacy of it leaves him feeling terrified. What if he’s no good at it? What if Gladio doesn’t like him any more after? What if it changes everything?

Gladio tenses, and Prompto realises after a moment that he’s pulled back to look at him, his eyes dark as he takes in Prompto’s expression.

‘We can stop,’ Gladio says. ‘Do you want me to stop?’

Prompto shakes his head, and the word ‘No’ is out of his mouth like a knee jerk reaction. Yeah, he’s scared, but he doesn’t want to disappoint Gladiolus, either.

It’s hard to admit it to himself, but the relief is overwhelming when Gladiolus refastens his fly and sits back, taking Prompto’s hand.

‘We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,’ he says. ‘I’m having fun with things as they are.’

Timidly, Prompto gives a little nod. He’s immeasurably grateful to Gladiolus for saying what he hadn’t been able to, but he still can’t help the tiny pang of guilt that hits his gut.

‘I don’t wanna stop,’ he says quietly. ‘I just… Let’s go slow, okay?’

Gladio gives a dutiful nod.

Going slow has as many cons as it does pros, of course, and by the time the alarm goes off on Gladio’s phone to warn him of his impending shift at the shop, Prompto’s all hot and breathless and fairly sure he’ll need a cold shower when he gets home. It looks like Gladiolus isn’t doing much better.

‘Okay,’ Gladio says, leaving one last kiss on Prompto’s lips. ‘I hate that I’m sayin’ this right now, but I gotta go.’

Prompto gives a little whine, and he’s slow pulling his shirt back on because it feels like a definite punctuation to the moment. He’s almost tempted to see if Gladiolus will trade shifts with somebody, but in all likelihood the only  _ somebody _ available would be  _ him. _

‘We could pick this up again tomorrow,’ he suggests. ‘I mean. If you want to.’

Gladiolus had been tying his hair back up; he stops, letting it hang loose around his jaw, and leans over to kiss Prompto once more. He’s got a subtle smile on his lips when he pulls away.

‘You  _ know _ I want to,’ he says. ‘Just gimme a time and place.’

It’s the first time Prompto has been inside the Amicitias’ home, and he still can’t help glancing around, impressed, as Gladiolus leads him out. It’s even more spacious than Noct’s place, although it’s done up in a completely different style — modern and minimalist, with sleek surfaces and pristine white walls. Prompto’s glad Gladio has yet to see the inside of his apartment; hopefully he never will.

‘Winter break is soon, anyways,’ Prompto says as Gladiolus tugs him downstairs by the hand. ‘I’m all yours then.’

They stop at the bottom of the stairs and for a little while they share an encore, Gladio pushing him gently up against the wall and kissing him with such heat that Prompto’s almost sure they’ll never get out of the front door.

Across the room, there’s a polite cough.

Gladiolus freezes, his eyes going wide, and Prompto does his best to hide as Gladio turns around to look.

‘Dad,’ he says. ‘I… didn’t realise you were in.’

Inevitably, Gladio steps out of the way and Prompto finds himself face to face with Clarus, where he sits on the sofa with a newspaper spread out across his lap. His expression is unreadable, and somehow that’s all the more horrific.

‘I haven’t been home for long,’ Clarus says. ‘Hello, Prompto.’

Prompto gives a feeble wave, flashing a self-conscious smile.

‘I, uh,’ Gladio says, pausing to scratch the stubble on his chin. Prompto’s pretty sure it’s the first time he’s seen the guy actually  _ embarrassed.  _ ‘I gotta go to work. Tell Mom I prob’ly won’t be home for dinner.’

Clarus gives a nod. After a glance at Prompto, he returns his attention to the newspaper, lifting it once more.

Outside, Gladiolus lets his breath out all in one burst. A faint red tinge is just visible under the olive of his cheeks.

‘Shit,’ he says. ‘That was… awkward.’

Prompto can’t help but give a nervous giggle. It could have been worse, he supposes — if Clarus had walked in on them about ten minutes earlier, it would have been a lot more than awkward.

* * *

He still has a little time to kill before he meets Ardyn, so he heads home to grab something to eat first. Even as he’s letting himself through the door he can’t seem to stop splitting into a grin as he remembers the past hour he spent with Gladio, languidly whiling the time away as if neither of them had a care in the world.

He’s bouncing on his feet as he makes his way into the kitchen and makes a beeline for the refrigerator; he almost doesn’t notice his mom sitting at the table with a bundle of papers scattered across it in front of her.

‘Oh, hey,’ he says, with a little wave. ‘How was work?’

She doesn’t answer him, and at first he’d think she was just distracted — but then he probes his senses out reflexively, and he can feel the jumble of her feelings leaching out into the room, tainting the air. Whatever’s on her mind, she’s got something she wants to say.

He has a feeling he’s going to find out what it is sooner, rather than later.

‘Everything okay?’ he asks, turning around empty-handed to face her as he kicks the fridge door shut. He can feel his heart jumping around in his chest and tries not to let it show as he flashes her a smile.

She’s not smiling back.

‘I just had an interesting phone call,’ she says.

He can see the handset now, lying in the middle of all the bills and letters scattered around her. He wonders how long she’s been sitting there, waiting for him to come home.

He wonders if she knows about his little meetings with Ardyn.

‘Yeah?’ he says, with an attempt at a breezy tone. ‘Who was it?’

She sighs, and he feels a sense of impending doom as she laces her fingers and sets her hands down on the table in front of her.

‘Clarus Amicitia,’ she says. ‘Gladiolus’s father.’

Prompto blinks.

‘Oh,’ he said. ‘What did he… have to say?’

He watches his mother wet her lips and push her chair back, rising to her feet. He thinks for an instant that she’s going to storm over and blow up at him, but instead she rests her weight on the table and shakes her head, her eyes weary.

‘Prompto,’ she says. ‘Does nothing I say matter any more?’

He knows better than to answer; sure enough she’s sighing and pushing off from the table, turning toward the window behind the table before whirling back around to face him.

‘First you break curfew,’ she says. ‘And then you’re running around with Gladiolus, even though I told you I’m not comfortable with it. Do you… Do you think I just say things for fun? Do is ever occur to you that maybe I have a  _ reason _ to want to protect you?’

Heat rushes to Prompto’s cheeks, and he can feel the same rush of irrational anger that had come over him the last time they had this conversation. He wants to tell her that she doesn’t  _ know _ Gladio; that she couldn’t possibly understand him like he does.

‘What is your deal with him?’ he blurts instead. ‘Is it because he’s a guy? Is that the problem?’

Her brow furrows almost theatrically.

‘What?’ she says. ‘No! Of course not!’

He throws his hands up.

‘What then, Mom?’ he prompts. ‘And please don’t tell me it’s the age thing again. Dad was three years older than you when you started dating him.’

‘That’s no—’ she starts, her voice just short of being a shout. She takes a moment, breathing slowly, then tries again. ‘That’s not the same, Prompto. You know that.’

‘So tell me,’ he says. ‘Explain it to me.’

She closes her eyes, exhaling slowly, and pushes her hand through her hair. He can tell she’s running through it all in her head, and when he pushes his senses out towards her he feels threads of protectiveness woven through her emotions, along with a little bit of… fear?

‘Did Gladiolus tell you why he left school and moved back home?’ she says, settling her hazel eyes on him. ‘The whole reason?’

Prompto shrugs. Gladio opened up to him about it — after their initial conversation at the coffee shop, they’ve touched on it a couple times since. He doesn’t much feel like telling her that he knows his boyfriend was on antidepressants for a while, if that’s what she’s getting at.

‘Yes,’ he says flatly. ‘He did.’

‘Are you sure?’ she says.

She’s starting to sound upset, and there’s just enough to it to make him doubt himself. What if Gladio didn’t tell him everything? What could he possibly be hiding that could be so bad?

‘Did he tell you he was involved with somebody while he was at college?’ she says. ‘One of his professors?’

Prompto can do little more than stare at her while the words sink in. It’s like she’s speaking gibberish, at first, and then it all slowly starts to slot into place. Somehow, it makes even less sense afterwards.

He narrows his eyes, shaking his head hurriedly. Gladiolus would have told him that, if it were true. He’s sure of it.

‘He wouldn’t—’

‘He did, Prompto,’ she interjects. ‘And I know — that man should have known better than to get involved with one of his students, but Gladiolus obviously has a problem understanding what’s appropriate in a relationship.’

Prompto feels sick. He staggers back, barely catching himself with the countertop behind him. The pattern of the tiles on the floor beneath him is so dizzying suddenly that he can hardly stand to be in the room with it any more.

‘I’m telling you this because I love you, Prompto,’ she says. ‘I hoped you’d leave it alone and I wouldn’t have to say anything.’

He sees her start to move across the room towards him, and the flood of emotions pouring from her — sympathy, sadness, and a little bit of vindication — is all too much. She’s reaching out to him, trying to take him into his arms, and he just barely manages to slip away before she can touch him.

‘Stop,’ he says, feeling his voice crack. ‘You don’t… You don’t know him like I do.’

‘Honey,’ she blurts.

She tries to reach out to him; he flinches away and she chews her lip, folding her arms across her chest.

‘I understand,’ she says. ‘I thought the same thing, once. I wound up with somebody I shouldn’t have, and I let him suck me in. I fell for it, Prompto. I don’t want you falling for it, too.’

He shakes his head, clutching a hand to his temple.

_ What is she even saying? _

‘It’s not the same thing, Mom!’ he shouts. ‘Gladio didn’t do anything wrong!’

‘Honey,’ she says, again, and he’s so  _ sick _ of her trying to comfort him, trying to coddle him.

When she reaches out to try to touch him this time, he feels everything burst out of him in an explosion of energy. The light flickers wildly and cuts out; the doors of the cupboards slam; the paperwork on the table flies violently into the air and scatters about on the floor. Before his mom can even register what’s happening, he’s storming out of the kitchen and toward his bedroom, shaking with rage.

He can hear her rushing down the hall after him — he flings his hand out, and feels a current send the door slamming shut behind him, as though blown by a gust of wind.

He’s already tossing things into his backpack when he hears her knock urgently on the door, calling his name; he tunes the sound out and grabs everything he can think of.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, only that he needs to get away.  _ Now. _

* * *

He’s still shaking by the time he gets to the library; the adrenaline has soured somewhat in his system and he feels ill and weak.

He had considered bailing on Ardyn and going to Cor’s auto shop to speak with Gladio, but even in his agitated state he knows that’s not a good idea. It’s a terrible idea, even.

Prompto isn’t even sure how he’s going to concentrate on his practice with Ardyn when so much of it has involved supreme focus, tapping into things that are tough enough to control on the best of days. Then again, he gets fleeting memories of the things he did at the apartment — his tantrum in the kitchen, slamming the door — and while he wonders sickly if his mother realised what was happening, he knows he should at least talk to Ardyn about it. He hadn’t been trying when it had happened, after all.

He storms around outside the library, trying to work off some of his anger and hurt, and he doesn’t hear Ardyn approaching over the thundering of his own footfalls.

‘Dear me,’ the man says in his cloying, patronising tone. ‘Someone’s in quite a tizzy.’

Prompto snaps around toward him, ready to unleash a verbal tirade, but he thinks better of it. What happened isn’t Ardyn’s fault — and maybe he’s the only person he can talk to right now.

‘I don’t think I can… be around people right now,’ Prompto says, shaking his hands out as though he can shuck off some of the nerves. ‘Can we go back to the park today?’

‘I have a better idea,’ Ardyn says. ‘If you’d like to be alone, I have somewhere that might suit.’

The thought crosses Prompto’s mind that if his mom knew he was wandering off with a relative stranger, she’d be far more upset than she already had been. Somehow, that bolsters him, and he finds himself nodding.

They don’t have far to go, at least; Prompto’s surprised when Ardyn leads him towards the clocktower and around the back of it, slipping a key from his pocket and unlocking the door there. The man flips a switch and a handful of lights flicker to life overhead, illuminating a set of stairs winding down beneath the building.

‘What is this place?’ Prompto says, squinting downwards.

‘I called in a favour from an old friend,’ Ardyn says. ‘He’s allowed me to use the space, for as long as I’m in town.’

Misgivings nag at Prompto as Ardyn gestures toward the stairs, but he ignores them and heads forward, letting his anger fuel him. By the time he’s at the foot of the stairs, he’s too curious about the space to be worried any more.

It’s a small, humble little room, with a stove in one corner and a bed in the other. Other than a sink, a table and chairs, a small chest of drawers and a door, there’s nothing else to be seen. The only windows are high up on the walls at ground level, fitted with bars. It definitely looks lived in, although Prompto wouldn’t call it  _ cosy _ by any stretch of imagination.

Ardyn slips his coat off and drapes it over a chair, setting his hat down on the table by it. Prompto keeps his jacket on and sets his backpack on the ground between his feet.

‘Tell me what’s on your mind,’ Ardyn says, waving Prompto toward a free chair while he leans against the back of the first. ‘Your aura is positively bristling.’

Tentatively, Prompto takes a seat and clasps his hands in his lap in front of him.

‘My mom and I had a fight,’ he says. It feels disloyal, talking to this man he’s known only a short while, but he carries on. ‘She doesn’t  _ approve _ of the person I’m seeing for some stupid, bullshit reason.’

Ardyn quietly contemplates Prompto’s words. After a moment, he pushes away from his chair and moves over to the stove; Prompto watches him fill a kettle from the sink and place it over the stove, lighting the ring with a match.

‘Do you believe she’s wrong not to approve,’ Ardyn says, ‘or is there a part of you that agrees with her?’

‘What?’ Prompto blurts. ‘No!’

He can feel heat rush to his face, and Ardyn seems to watch him curiously. It’s a struggle for Prompto to get his emotions back under control.

‘That’s not the point,’ Prompto says. ‘After we fought, I blew up and everything went haywire. Doors slamming, stuff flying everywhere.’

He sees Ardyn’s eyes widen fractionally; the man turns his back then, pottering about gathering cups from the cupboards in the corner.

‘And your mother was there to see this?’ Ardyn says.

Prompto sighs.

‘Yeah. I don’t know. I guess.’

Ardyn makes a soft  _ Hm _ sound, and it’s the last Prompto hears from him for a while until the kettle whistles and he pours water into two cups. When he brings them over, he sets one in front of Prompto; it smells sweet, like herbal tea.

‘Is that chamomile? he asks. He recognises the scent — his mom keeps dried pouches of the stuff to make infusions with.

Ardyn nods and takes a seat across from him, stirring his own tea with a gloved hand.

‘It has a calming effect,’ Ardyn says. ‘It may be of some benefit to you.’

Obediently, Prompto takes a sip. At least it tastes okay, although he doesn’t feel much better from the first mouthful.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ Prompto says, groaning. ‘I can’t go home. How do I even explain what happened?’

Ardyn nods thoughtfully. He clinks his spoon against the brim of his tea, then sets it down on the saucer.

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he says. ‘It may bring about… inconvenient questions as to where you’ve learned to tap into your abilities. I’m sure it would only worsen matters if your dear mother were to find out.’

_ He doesn’t want Mom to know. Why not? _

But even as the thought dwindles, he can see the sense in Ardyn’s words. She already lost it when she found out he was still seeing Gladiolus; how would she take it if she knew about all of  _ this? _

‘So… what do I do?’ he says meekly. ‘It… It kind of scared me. That I lost control like that.’

Ardyn takes a sip of his tea, staring off into the middle-distance while he drinks. He seems to savour the taste while he mulls his thoughts over, and when he sets the cup down he appears to have reached some sort of resolution.

‘There’s nothing for it,’ he declares. ‘It’s not safe to be around her while things are so clearly volatile. If you were to have another argument, who knows what might happen?’

Dread gnaws at Prompto’s stomach. He sets the tea aside — it won’t help much now.

‘No,’ Ardyn continues, with a resolute nod. ‘It certainly won’t do. I can help you work to control it, but until then, you should stay somewhere else for a while. Do you have somewhere you can go?’

Prompto runs through his options. Gladiolus is probably out of the equation — he’s not even sure how to feel about things with him, in light of his mom’s revelation. 

When the answer hits him, it’s so obvious he doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it sooner.

‘Yeah,’ he says. He’s already thinking of how he’ll try to explain everything to Noct. ‘I think so.’

Ardyn nods, and something of a sympathetic smile twists the corners of his lips. It’s so uncanny; Prompto will never get over how uncomfortable it is to see him smile.

‘Good,’ Ardyn replies. ‘Then that solves your first problem. As for the matter of controlling your abilities, we should begin immediately. If you feel up to it, of course.’

Prompto looks down at his hands in his lap, as though they’re the cause for this whole mess. He’s so drained — emotionally, physically — that he just wants to go curl up and hibernate until everything blows over. Ardyn has a point, though; the sooner they start, the sooner he can get things back on track.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘Where do we start?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's mention of a teacher-student affair (adult and consensual, albeit inappropriate) in this chapter.
> 
> Come yell with me on social media! [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/ghostmallovv)


	12. Chapter 12

Prompto lies beneath a fortress of blankets in the little makeshift bed that he’s made up for himself in the corner of Noct’s room. He knows, from the persistent daylight that keeps seeping through the gaps in the blankets, that it must be sometime around noon — but he’s not getting up anytime soon, if he can help it.

He had sneaked into Noct’s place that first night, but Regis had figured it out, as he always seems to; after a long, uncomfortable question during which Prompto refused to yield why exactly he had run away from home, Regis finally offered up the guest room for as long as he needed. Prompto had been happier sharing Noct’s space instead.

He checks his phone. There are three texts already, each from Noct telling him that their teachers are starting to get pissy about him missing so much school. He lifts the blankets up just enough to toss his phone across the room.

He’ll have to venture out into the real world, eventually, but today doesn’t feel like the day.

‘Prompto?’

He pokes his head out; Regis stands in the doorway, and there’s a look of infinite patience on his face as he surveys the room and the corner Prompto has claimed for himself.

‘It’s the solstice tonight,’ Regis says. ‘Can I expect you there?’

The solstice — _shit._ Prompto had been so wrapped up in his own misery that he must have lost track of time.

He groans and flops down face-first under his blankets, prompting a laugh from Regis across the room.

After all that happened, Prompto’s glad he has Noct and his dad. They’ve both been incredibly cool in a time where things are decidedly _uncool,_ and it’s been nice to have a little vacation away from everything. He hasn’t even seen Gladiolus since before his argument with his mom — he’s not exactly ghosting him, but Prompto has met any attempts at seeing each other with invented excuses.

Gladio will be at the gathering tonight; so will Prompto’s mom. The thought makes his stomach squirm.

‘I dunno,’ he grumbles.

He’d be surprised if his voice could even be heard through the layers of bedding, but he hears Regis give a sigh. The floorboards creak slightly under his weight as he moves across the room, the bedsprings groaning as he takes a seat at the edge of it.

‘Prompto,’ Regis says, and there’s something in his tone that makes Prompto duck a head out to look at him. ‘It’s not that I don’t enjoy your company here, but your mother’s worried about you. If you show up tonight, it might go some way toward reassuring her that you haven’t absconded altogether.’

Prompto feels like bitterly retorting that he couldn’t care less about her knowing that he’s safe, but that’s not true. He’s mad at her — still, days later, which amazes even _him_ when his grudges always seem to fade away by morning — but he doesn’t _hate_ her. Even after that first phone call, when she had asked Regis to put him on and Prompto had refused, the image in his head of her expression of disappointment had almost driven him home.

‘I’ll think about it,’ he mutters.

‘Good,’ Regis says briskly, rising to his feet, only to move to the blanket fort and duck down beside it, his knees cracking as he goes. ‘You might also like to know that Gladiolus stopped by while you were asleep.’

That’s another problem he’s going to have to tackle sooner or later. He hasn’t even thought about it in-depth yet — about what his mother told him. He’s not sure he can handle it even now.

‘Thanks,’ he says, pushing himself up into a sitting position and scrubbing at his face. ‘I’m gonna… go shower, I guess.’

Regis nods and stands, heading for the door where he pauses at the frame and glances back.

‘I can make you breakfast, if you like,’ he says. ‘ _Late_ breakfast.’

* * *

 Prompto thumbs idly at a loose flap of wrapping paper on the gift he holds in his grasp.

It had been Regis’s idea — if he wasn’t going into school, he couldn’t very well sit around the house all day. After helping Prompto pick out something for Noct, Regis had left him to shop around for Gladiolus. It had been a difficult one, trying to decide what was an adequate gift without being _too much._ In the end, Prompto had erred a little on the side of heartfelt.

He’s nervous about seeing Gladio; nervous about maybe having to bring up the conversation he had with his mom. He’s not even mad at Gladio — definitely not like he is at his mother — but he can’t help feeling like things have changed between them.

‘You look amazing, dude,’ Noct says, pausing to ruffle Prompto’s hair as he edges past the back of the couch behind him. ‘Gonna knock Gladio dead.’

 _That_ had been Noct’s idea — getting all dressed up. He had even let Prompto open his gift early so that he could wear the black satin shirt he bought, and helped him straighten his hair.

‘You think?’ Prompto says timidly.

Noct leans over the back of the couch and peers around at him, giving him a look.

‘Trust me.’

When the doorbell rings, Prompto’s stomach reflexively contracts. Seeing his mother is inevitable, but that doesn’t make the thought of it any easier — every minute that counts down takes him closer to seeing each other again. When Regis opens the door, however, he doesn’t hear his mother’s voice — but Clarus’s.

There’s a hubbub in the entryway as Iris blasts through the door and her parents laugh in response. Prompto doesn’t even need Noct hurriedly tapping at his shoulder to know that Gladiolus is there, too.

Prompto can feel sweat prickling under his arms as he stands up and turns around. Gladio’s there in the doorway, a present tucked under his arm, and he lingers just at the threshold for so long that Prompto feels like he’s going to throw up if he doesn’t say something.

‘I’ll leave you two alone,’ Noct says with a knowing grin; as he passes Gladio on the way out, he gently nudges him through doorway and shuts it behind him.

The closed door goes some way toward drowning out the noise of the new arrivals — it’s easy enough to pretend they aren’t even there as the world falls away with each step Gladiolus takes towards him.

There’s an awkward little shuffle as they move to hand each other their gifts, then Gladio tries to take Prompto’s hand, and it all winds up in Prompto giggling and flushing with heat as Gladiolus slings his free arm around him and pulls him close.

‘Missed you,’ Gladio murmurs into his ear, kissing his cheek.

It hasn’t even been a week, but all Prompto can think is _Me too._

He doesn’t quite get the words out; when Gladio pulls away there’s worry on his face and he takes each of their gifts and sets them aside, tugging Prompto into a bear hug that he seems reluctant to break.

It’s all too easy to sink into his arms, relishing the warmth of him.

‘Noct said you ain’t been at school,’ Gladiolus says. ‘Missed you at work, too.’

Prompto drops his head against Gladio’s shoulder. He knew he’d have to explain himself, sooner or later.

When Gladiolus lets go, Prompto sighs and slumps onto the couch, where Gladio takes a seat beside him.

‘Had a huge fight with my mom,’ Prompto mutters, absently straightening out the hem of his shirt. ‘I’ve kinda… been staying here.’

Gladiolus settles into the seat next to Prompto and puts a hand on his knee, giving it a brief, reassuring squeeze.

‘Noct told me that, too. Anything you wanna talk about?’

Prompto shakes his head before he even has time to think — and then he regrets it immediately. He doesn’t want to sour things by bringing it up, but neither does he want to lie. It’s been difficult enough holding his tongue about Ardyn.

He watches Gladiolus reach over to the table to grab his gift, and wonders if now is the time: if there’ll ever be a good time. He’s not even so sure it’s any of his business who Gladio was seeing before they were together, before they ever met.

He misses his window when Gladio hands him the gift with a grin.

Whatever it is, it’s tightly-wrapped and heavy. Prompto has to hunt out a corner of the sparkling blue paper to slip his finger under, and when he does he has to tear at it to gain any headway. Gladiolus watches him with kind amusement as he struggles with it, but then he manages to yank it open and suddenly there’s a heavy jacket in his lap, leather effect, with a skull pattern embroidered into the back.

‘You should try it on,’ Gladio says. ‘Make sure it fits.’

Prompto reverently unzips it and lifts it up, ready to slip it onto his shoulders, when something flutters out and falls to the floor. When he stoops to pick it up, it’s two slips of paper — concert tickets, he realises, as he grabs them.

‘Placebo?’ he says excitedly. ‘Serious?’

Gladio gives an eager nod.

‘I can drive you,’ he says. ‘Or we can get the Greyhound. I checked with Noct and you don’t have any tests that week so you can probably cut class.’

‘But you don’t even _like_ Placebo,’ Prompto says. ‘You didn’t have to—’

Gladiolus gives a shrug.

‘You like ‘em,’ he says. ‘Good enough for me.’

Prompto’s gift for Gladio feels like it pales in comparison before he ever even gets around to opening it; Prompto wishes he had the money to splash out on something really special.

When Gladiolus opens it up and sees the book within, he’s quiet.

‘Sylvia Plath was my dad’s favourite,’ Prompto explains. ‘Mom still had his copy of this lying around for years and I liked it, and I figured maybe you would too. Noct told me you read, and I know it’s not historical fiction or anything but…’

He’s babbling, he realises. He cuts off with a meek little smile.

Gladiolus tilts the cover so that the twinkle lights strung up around the room catch the lettering of the title: _Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams._

‘Prompto,’ Gladio says. ‘Thank you. It’s perfect.’

Prompto decides, as Gladiolus takes him into his arms, that it doesn’t matter what came before they knew each other — all that matters is now. He’s determined not to let anything screw that up.

Gladio cups his cheek, tilting his face up to pull him into a kiss, and it’s like everything is right in the world once more.

* * *

It’s so cold out that Regis enlists help moving furniture to house everybody in the living room. Even though it’s a sizeable space, it still feels compact with so many people all in together. They sit this time, all in a circle on the floor, and Prompto has Noct’s hand in his right, with Gladio’s in his left. Prompto can’t help but notice that this year, Ignis has chosen to seat himself with the adults.

He’s avoiding meeting his mother’s eye where she sits at Regis’s side; at least she hasn’t tried to talk to him since she showed up.

The Caelums’ Yule decorations have always been a welcome reprieve from the gaudier displays favoured by some of the town’s more avid residents; the whole house is done up in classy winter foliage, with twinkle lights to ward off the dark and flickering candles sitting in the windows.

Most of the guests in attendance still celebrate Christmas, but for others this is the only festival needed — the solstice, signalling the eventual return of the sun.

‘It’s always such a pleasure to have you all here at this time of year,’ Regis says, his soft voice still carrying across the space. ‘Life spreads us all near and far, but the holidays have a way of pulling us back together.

‘Frantically hunting for the perfect present, making travel arrangements, trying to get into the spirit of it all even through all the stress and mayhem — it takes its toll. It’s so easy to find yourself obsessing over making everyone around you happy, but it’s important to take time out for ourselves, too.’

Prompto still finds it hard to believe that Regis ever gets stressed — he remembers a time, months earlier, when he had eavesdropped on him with Clarus; remembers thinking it had been the first time he had ever seemed vulnerable.

He wonders, fleetingly, if they’re still getting letters from whoever had been sending them.

‘Winter should be a time of quietude: of restfulness,’ Regis continues. ‘It’s so easy to forget that fact in the midst of all the Christmas music and increasingly frantic adverts telling you what to buy. As always, I’d like you all to take a moment to reflect — but more importantly I invite you to take this time as a chance to relax. A few minutes just for you, if you will.’

It isn’t long, after they each close their eyes and the room settles into stillness, before Prompto’s mind begins to wander, as it always does. He thinks of Gladio’s gift — of his own gift to Gladiolus, and Noct’s insistence that Gladio had loved it; he thinks of how good it had felt to be back in his arms.

His mother had seen them together when she arrived, had spotted them holding hands in the kitchen while they picked at cookies Ignis had made. She had said nothing, but Prompto had seen the disappointment in her eyes.

He feels a fresh surge of anger now — that she could try to take Gladio away from him, that she could throw his past in Prompto’s face. She had been so resolved in her conviction that Gladiolus had done something wrong, so self-righteous; just thinking of their argument makes Prompto’s heart hammer in his chest, and even though he knows he should be trying to calm himself, to ground himself, he can’t seem to push the thoughts out of his head.

He can feel her: can feel her gaze on him, making his skin prickle. Can feel the waves of disappointment, of frustration, rolling off her and tainting the peace of the room. When he opens his eyes she’s watching him, her glance flitting to Prompto’s hand where it sits in Gladio’s.

Defiant, he meets her eye. Lifts his chin as if to challenge her.

It happens without him realising, at first: the energy comes to him in threads, just waiting to be pulled. It’s only once he feels its warmth across the surface of his skin, in the very blood within his veins, that he understands.

He can take a little bit from everybody, he knows — just borrow the tiniest amount piecemeal and gather it all within himself. There’s tiny, indistinct voice of warning, telling him to temper himself, but he ignores it.

He narrows his eyes as he watches her, and there’s something satisfying in the subtle changes that come about in her face with each passing second. She begins to pale; her lips tremble slightly. He imagines filling her with the very same pain that she caused him, and he sees it manifest in the dark circles under her eyes, the furrow of her brow.

How good it would be to make her understand — to show her just how it felt to have her try to come between him and Gladiolus.

He pictures the feeling smothering her: draining the light from her. She’s not just pale now — she’s ashen. He watches a bead of sweat drip down her forehead, but that’s not enough; he keeps pushing until he can feel her distress leaching out into the room around her.

His body thrums with energy now, with power. His potential is limitless.

_How easy would it be to snuff out her light altogether, as though it were a candle in the wind?_

The voice is insidious and all too persuasive. He realises with a sickening lurch that it’s his own.

It’s getting away from him — the air in room is heavy, and when he tries to rein everything in he realises with alarm that he _can’t._ The static in his veins is dizzying, nauseating, and all he wants is for everything to _stop._

A shockwave blasts through the room; there’s a cacophony of noise, of surprise, of fear, from the guests all sitting in a circle. His mother’s wilting, Clarus barely rushing to catch her in his arms.

Prompto doesn’t wait to see if she’s okay. He jumps to his feet, his hands slipping sweat-slick from Gladio and Noct’s grasps. He rushes headlong for the door, his hand already seeking out his phone in his pocket before he ever gets outside.

It’s maybe ten degrees out when he bursts through the front door and lets it slam behind him; he hardly notices the cold for all his shaking, but his fingers are somehow steady and sure as they hunt through the contacts in his phone.

It doesn’t dial long before the call connects and he hears Ardyn’s voice on the other end, clearly surprised.

‘I need to see you,’ Prompto blurts. ‘I need your help.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell with me on social media! [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/ghostmallovv)


	13. Chapter 13

Prompto’s skin is still crackling by the time he gets out to Ardyn’s place underneath the clocktower. He knocks on the door, and when Ardyn doesn’t come right away he hammers all the harder.

There had been so much confusion at the gathering that nobody had really tried to stop him as he grabbed his coat and left. Maybe they hadn’t even noticed him, what with all of the mayhem.

The door swings open; he isn’t standing at its opening long before Ardyn ushers him down within the bowels of the building.

The place is just as dingy and small as Prompto remembers, although it’s warmer this time courtesy of a space heater Ardyn has pulled into the centre of the floor. When Ardyn gestures to it, Prompto struggles out of his coat and pulls a chair over, warming his hands over the heater.

‘Tell me what happened,’ Ardyn says calmly. It’s the first thing either of them have said. ‘Start from the very beginning.’

So Prompto does — he talks Ardyn through waking up that morning, and how apprehensive he had been, although he leaves out the bit about Gladio’s gifts. When he gets to what had happened at the circle, Ardyn makes him go over it in fine detail; just when Prompto thinks he’s said enough, Ardyn has him describe it again, butting in from time to time for clarification.

Prompto feels exhausted — feels impossibly raw. He wants to cry, but he’s too depleted.

‘Perhaps we were right to keep you away from your mother,’ Ardyn says thoughtfully.

Prompto watches, silently, as Ardyn crosses the room and sets about boiling water for tea. He’d prefer something alcoholic, but he doubts that’s on the menu.

‘You can’t have anticipated that this would happen,’ Ardyn says. ‘Your powers have been newly awakened, and with the emotional turmoil you’ve been going through, it’s understandable that you would lose control.’

Prompto shakes his head and buries his face in his hands. He can’t keep his eyes closed for too long; he keeps picturing his mom, weak and suffering — because of him.

‘It felt like…’

He lifts his head; Ardyn turns to look at him curiously.

‘It felt like it wasn’t me,’ Prompto continues. ‘But… it  _ was. _ I didn’t want to hurt her, but I  _ did. _ Am I… making any sense?’

He sees Ardyn’s eyebrows curve as though in surprise, but Ardyn turns back to the tea before Prompto can think much on it.

The silence endures for long enough for Prompto to let self-doubt worm its way in. Ardyn clearly thinks he’s a freak, and he’s  _ right. _ It was stupid to run away from the circle; Prompto should have turned himself in. Maybe then Regis or somebody else would have been able to figure out what to do to make sure he wasn’t a threat to anybody any longer.

Ardyn sets the tea down in front of Prompto without a word. It’s chamomile again; Prompto takes a deep gulp of it even as the hot water scalds his lips.

‘I believe I can help you,’ Ardyn says. His face is the picture of concern. ‘But I’m afraid I must come clean first.’

There have been so many secrets lately, so many revelations. Prompto isn’t sure he can take any more, and as Ardyn steps away toward a small shelf by his bed, anxiety worms its way into his stomach. He watches Ardyn stoop to his haunches, riffling through his things, and when he sees the man rise and turn around with something in his hands, Prompto eyes it suspiciously.

‘I had no idea who you were when we first met,’ Ardyn says, ‘although imagine my surprise when I learned you were just the person I was looking for.’

He’s holding an envelope, yellowed with age and slightly crinkled at the corners; when Prompto takes it from his grasp, he turns it to see the words  _ To my son _ written in scrolling cursive on the front.

‘Is this—’ Prompto begins, but Ardyn cuts him off with a shake of his head.

‘Best to read it yourself,’ Ardyn says.

Prompto’s hands are trembling a little; the envelope quivers in his grasp as he flips it over. It’s still sealed, so Ardyn must not have read it yet — although the adhesive has deteriorated somewhat with age and the corners are starting to come away. He slips his finger underneath it with ease, and it slides open with barely any force.

He hardly notices that Ardyn has stepped away, busying himself with something elsewhere in the room; his eyes are on the letter as he opens it out, taking in the unfamiliar handwriting.

_ My son, _

_ As I write this, I have yet to meet you. The truth is, I’m afraid I may never have the chance. When Callista told me that she was expecting a child — a boy, she was certain, and our people are seldom wrong — I could hardly believe it. To imagine myself a father, with such a wonderful woman no less, seemed impossible. _

_ I wanted to prove that I could be a better man for her, that we could be a family together — all three of us. Sadly, that wasn’t to be. _

_ I will leave this letter in safe hands, in hopes that you might read it someday. If you are curious to know more of your heritage, then perhaps you’ll try to find me. A great power runs through my veins, and yours — a wealth of ancient knowledge. Someday you’ll come into your inheritance, and I hope I may be there to see it. _

_ Your father, _

_ Verstael Besithia _

There’s so much to absorb that Prompto’s reeling by the time he gets to the signature. He stares at the name, etched in such spidery cursive that it’s almost hard to decipher, until the words start to blur together.

‘I don’t,’ he says, shaking his head slowly. ‘I don’t understand.’

Ardyn sighs nearby, and when Prompto glances up there’s a pitying look on his face, as though it should be the simplest concept for Prompto to grasp — as though it’s all laid out there in plain black ink, and he simply needs to realise it.

What this letter is saying — it  _ can’t _ be right. Prompto  _ knows _ his dad. Remembers the years they spent together, even if they’re a little fuzzy around the edges after almost a decade. Whenever he thinks back to those days in their little cottage, where it always smelled like fresh-cut flowers and homemade food, it’s always his father he sees; always  _ his dad. _

‘Ah, but I think you do,’ Ardyn says. ‘You see the truth in front of you, but you’re afraid to embrace it.’

This is a joke. All just some sick, twisted joke at Prompto’s expense.

He casts the letter aside, barely caring where it falls. Ardyn’s in the way but he barrels past him and straight for the door.

‘Prompto,’ Ardyn calls. ‘Run away if you will, but you’ll never learn the truth of who you are.’

It’s almost not enough. Prompto almost doesn’t stop, but as his hand is on the doorknob he feels inevitability prickle up his spine. Ardyn knew this man — the man who wrote the book he’s been furiously reading for weeks, the man who’s supposedly his  _ father. _ If Prompto needs anything right now, it’s answers; Ardyn seems to be the only one who has any.

‘You know it to be true, don’t you?’ Ardyn says, his tone coaxing. ‘You’ve felt it for a long time — how different you are, how you don’t fit in. There’s a darkness inside you, dear boy. Haven’t you ever wondered where it came from?’

Prompto can still picture his mother’s face at the circle; can still remember the static that had gone through him at Samhain, only to see Regis crumple like a puppet whose strings were snapped.

It had been him back then. He had felt it in his bones, but hadn’t wanted to believe it. Now he’s sure of it.

His hand slips from the doorknob and falls to his side. If he stays, it’s as good as admitting that the letter is right. If he goes, he’ll never know for sure.

‘Is it true?’ he asks, turning slowly. He lifts his head; finds Ardyn watching him sympathetically. ‘Was he really my dad?’

Ardyn bows his head, a hand pressed to his heart. When he looks up once more he gestures back to Prompto’s seat, then turns away and returns to the shelf to stoop in front of it once more.

‘Would that he were still alive,’ Ardyn says wistfully. ‘He always wanted to meet you, but he never had the chance.’

Prompto feels numb as he returns to his seat and sinks down into it. He belatedly remembers his tea and it’s long gone tepid, but it’s good enough to slake his thirst for the time being while he waits. He spots the letter where it must have fluttered beneath the table; reaches down and picks it up again, holding it in his lap.

‘Your parents — that is, your mother and Hadrian Argentum,’ Ardyn says, ‘weren’t yet together. They were thick as thieves, of course, with Cor. While Hadrian was your father’s student, your mother came to know him. Rather  _ intimately. _ ’

It’s a mental image that Prompto doesn’t exactly want to deal with, so he busies himself by reading once more over the contents of the letter. A second glance doesn’t seem to shed any more light on them — that his mother and Verstael weren’t still together when Prompto’s born, however, is obvious.

Ardyn stands up finally, extending long, spindly limbs as he rises to his feet. There’s a book in his grasp, and as he steps toward Prompto he opens the rear cover of it, handing it over.

There’s a photograph on the inside of the sleeve, in black and white — a man with pale curly hair that hangs shaggy about his face, and piercing eyes. Age has already begun to turn his features sour, but there’s something about the shape of his lips, the turn of his nose, that seems familiar.

‘You see it, don’t you?’ Ardyn purrs. ‘It’s quite a remarkable likeness.’

Prompto’s hand trembles traitorously as he takes the book from Ardyn’s grasp. If he looks at the picture just so, and allows his eyes to come unfocused, he can see it: thirty years or more apart, it’s plain to see that he shares Prompto’s blood.

He closes the book, handing it back to Ardyn. A cold chill has come over him — a feeling of dull finality. What Ardyn says is true.

‘What did he mean?’ Prompto asks. ‘About my  _ inheritance? _ I guess he wasn’t talking about money.’

He follows his words with a self-conscious laugh that falls flat when he realises Ardyn isn’t smiling.

With a long, labouring sigh, Ardyn pulls out his chair and sits into it facing Prompto, their knees a foot apart. When he leans forward, Prompto catches the musty smell of his hair.

‘It’s something much greater than material wealth,’ Ardyn says with a smile. ‘Something that can’t be traded or bartered.

‘Something,’ he says, lifting his hand and prodding Prompto in the chest, just above his heart, ‘which can only be found right here.’

Prompto can’t move; can barely shudder as Ardyn moves and grasps his wrist, turning it over so that the underside is exposed. He traces two fingers, the nails long and yellowing, down the faint blue of Prompto’s veins.

‘His blood runs through you,’ Ardyn says. His eyes are afire with excitement. ‘As his father’s did through him before you. A long, long line of powerful men — powerful  _ witches. _ You need only tap into that power to know your full potential.’

It’s only once Ardyn finally lets go that Prompto feels like he can breathe again. He pulls his hand away, folding his arm protectively against himself.

‘What if I don’t want to?’ he asks. ‘What if… What if I just want to normal?’

‘Dear boy,’ Ardyn says. He lowers himself to his knees; inexorably, Prompto feels his glance drawn to his. ‘Do you think you could now that all is said and done? Something has awoken within you — something you can’t yet control. The only way to learn to  _ temper _ it is to  _ embrace _ it.’

It makes sense, in a twisted way. Prompto could go on ignoring that any of this is happening, but without help it could be another repeat of Regis, or his mom. What if he  _ really  _ hurts somebody? What if somebody winds up dead?

The realisation is dizzying and insidious: that he can’t do anything without Ardyn’s help. That he’s only a danger to the people around him. That staying away from his mom is the only way to protect her.

He doesn’t want it to be like this, but he doesn’t know any other way.

‘Fine,’ he murmurs. ‘So you help me learn to control it. But after that I’m done, okay?’

Ardyn’s the picture of sympathy as Prompto meets his glance.

‘Certainly,’ Ardyn says. ‘We wouldn’t want to do anything you’re not comfortable with.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/mooglemallow)


	14. Chapter 14

‘Mr. Argentum.’

Prompto blearily lifts his head. The stillness over the classroom — like everybody’s coiled up with tension, waiting for something to happen — is his first warning. The second is the look on his teacher’s face.

The third is the fact that until about nine seconds ago, he was asleep, his head slumped on his desk, a puddle of drool amassing on the pages of his biology book.

Meekly, he wipes at the corner of his mouth and affixes his gaze somewhere around Ms. Stone’s shoulder. He’s too scared to meet her eye; getting _Mr. Argentum-_ ed is never a good sign.

‘I’m so glad you could join us again,’ she says briskly. ‘Please — if cytology is _boring_ you, just let me know.’

There’s a titter of laughter around the classroom — nervous, but tinged with the kind of relief that comes only from knowing they aren’t the target of the inevitable storm that’s about to hit.

‘Sorry,’ he mumbles.

‘Excuse me?’

He drags his glance finally, reluctantly, up to Ms. Stone’s face. She’s young, arguably pretty in the way that makes her the source of all the nasty locker room banter Prompto prefers to avoid; she’s notorious at Insomnia High for her temper, however, and even though her expression is blank, her eyes seem to be trying to burn holes through his skull.

‘I’m sorry, Ms. Stone,’ he repeats, a little louder. ‘It won’t happen again.’

‘No,’ the woman says. ‘It won’t. See me after class.’

* * *

As if it hadn’t been bad enough that he’d had to endure Ms. Stone’s tirade, he’d been sent to the principal’s office — and the principal, in turn, had made an appointment for him with the counsellor for after school.

He’s running late to his date with Gladio, courtesy of a wasted twenty minute sit-down with the counsellor, during which he’d been told that he’s been ‘slipping’ and that the teachers have ‘taken notice’. When she had said, in a maudlin tone, that the faculty were not angry with him but only worried, he had wanted so badly to storm out.

Instead he had sat and endured it, and when she asked if he had anything he wanted to talk about, he said just one thing:  
  
‘Can I go now?’

A few months ago, maybe he would have cared more about being pulled up. Been worried about upsetting his mom, when she already had so much to deal with.

Let her be upset, he figures. She deserves it.

He’s out of breath by the time he pedals up to the coffee shop where they’re due to meet. He had let Gladio know, of course — a quick and apologetic message to warn him about the holdup — but he still feels bad about it.

Lately, it’s like it’s a struggle to manage all the different parts of his life and keep them from colliding.

In all of this, though, Gladio has been his rock. When Prompto had told him about what he had found out — about how his father hadn’t really been his father, and how his mother had kept that secret from him all this time — Gladio had listened quietly and patiently, and had pulled Prompto into his arms when he was finished.

‘I’m here,’ he had said. ‘Ain’t goin’ anywhere.’

Prompto chains his bike up outside and takes a second to inspect himself in his reflection on the window before he heads in. He tries to tell himself that he doesn’t look terrible, but really he’s not surprised the faculty have been worried about him when he’s been walking around looking like hell all month.

Gladiolus, at least, only smiles and takes his hand when he approaches the table. There’s already a slice of cheesecake waiting there and Prompto’s heart feels like it could burst for all the gratitude that rushes into it.

‘Sorry I’m so late,’ Prompto says. ‘Make it up to you?’

Gladiolus smirks.

‘I won’t say no.’

Grinning, Prompto curls his hand around the back of Gladio’s neck and leans down, kissing him long and slow, letting the brush of his boyfriend’s lips wash away the stresses of the day. It’s easy to forget they’re in the corner of a coffee shop, even as Prompto hears a cheer from another table and recognises the voices of some of his classmates. He’s blushing as he pulls away, ducking his head low and hurriedly stripping off his coat so he can sit down.

‘Everything okay?’ Gladiolus asks. ‘Not like you to get called into the principal’s office.’

Prompto sighs. He spears his fork through the slice of cheesecake and scoops up a piece, shoveling into his mouth. He’s barely chewed through it before he answers.

‘Fell asleep in class,’ he says. ‘Got the whole _we’re worried about you_ lecture.’

He doesn’t like it — the look that crosses Gladio’s face. It’s not all that dissimilar to the look that had been on the counsellor’s face when he had sat down in front of her in her office.

‘Maybe they ain’t wrong, Prompto,’ Gladiolus says. ‘You need to start looking after yourself.’

Prompto feels a rush of irritation, and with it that irresistible, static-charge feeling of energy rushing into him. In some ways, it’s been getting worse since starting his lessons in earnest with Ardyn — but at least he can recognise it now.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Slowly, he pushes the energy outwards, letting it leak back into the room around him. When he looks at Gladio again, he feels lighter.

‘I know what I’m doing,’ Prompto says. He reaches across the table and touches Gladiolus’s hand, flashing a bright smile. ‘But I love that you look out for me.’

So they haven’t said The L Word yet — not directly, anyway — but it’s starting to get harder to keep it from slipping out. For Prompto, it feels like it’s a matter of time; he’s just worried he’ll scare Gladio off.

Across the table, Gladio picks up Prompto’s hand and kisses his knuckles.

‘Mom’s making sakura mochi for tonight,’ Gladio says with a pleased smile. ‘You gotta try ‘em. They’re amazing.’

Prompto winces. Right — _that._ In all of his sessions with Ardyn, he’d forgotten that Regis’s circle was tonight. He’s supposed to meet with Ardyn tonight, and he’d said yes without even giving it a second thought.

‘I’m not sure I’m gonna go,’ he mutters.

He can virtually _hear_ Gladiolus tense across the table. He tries to avoid making eye contact, but in spite of himself his glance is drawn upwards to wear Gladio frowns at him.

‘Is this ‘cause of your mom?’

It’s been weeks since Yule — since finding out the truth about his father. Even though he’s living at home again, he’s barely said a full sentence to his mother in that time.

That’s not entirely it, though. Mostly, he’s not sure he can trust himself not to lose control and hurt somebody again — at least, not yet. He’s just been neglecting to explain that part to Gladio.

‘It’s cool,’ Prompto says with a shrug. ‘I got a lot of homework to catch up on, anyways. Can’t really meditate on the changing of the seasons while I’m thinking about trig.’

Gladiolus ducks low over his tea and gives Prompto a meaningful look.

‘So we’ll _both_ bail,’ he says. ‘And I can help with your homework…’

Prompto sighs. It’s tempting — _more_ than tempting — but he can’t. As much as it might be more enjoyable to spend the evening whiling away the hours in Gladio’s bedroom, most definitely _not_ doing homework, Prompto can’t afford to miss his meetings with Ardyn.

‘Raincheck?’ Prompto says ruefully. ‘I really gotta get this stuff done.’

He doesn’t know which is worse — the way Gladiolus’s face falls just slightly with disappointment, or the feeling of guilt over lying to him.

An hour, another herbal tea and two cocoas later, they bundle outside into the cold once more. Gladiolus’s Honda is out front; they sidle up to it, and Prompto leans his hip against the side of it as he looks up at Gladio.

He’s still thinking maybe he could cancel with Ardyn — still weighing up the pros and cons. Gladio certainly adds an item to the pros list when he stoops and slips his arms around Prompto’s waist, pulling him into a kiss.

Even after the kiss ends, Gladio holds him; squeezes him tight and nuzzles a kiss into his hair.

‘You’re working tomorrow, right?’ he says, as he pulls away.

Prompto nods.

‘See you then, I guess.’

It’s still light out as they go their separate ways. Prompto’s starting to feel like the winter might finally be relinquishing its hold on Insomnia Falls, and even though he’s exhausted and more stressed out than he can ever remember being in all his life, the fresh air and daylight does him some good.

He heads home first — throws together a quick dinner out of ramen and hot dog wieners and eats in his room. There _is_ homework for him to do, so he makes a half-assed effort at it; when his phone alarm chimes out to let him know it’s time to leave, he stuffs everything into his backpack and gets ready to go.

Ardyn’s dressed in his heavy coat when he answers the door to Prompto, his scarf wrapped around his neck. By the looks of things, he’s on his way out — Prompto can’t help but think he got the time wrong.

Ardyn moves past him, however, and pulls the door shut behind himself; with a firm hand in the small of Prompto’s back, he steers him away from the clocktower.

‘Change of plans,’ he says. ‘I thought we might take our meeting outside tonight and make the most of the mild weather. The park, perhaps?’

Prompto shrugs. It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve done this, although the light is rapidly dwindling. Hopefully there won’t be anybody around this late to question what they’re doing there.

Ardyn hums idly as he walks. It seems tuneless at first, but it seems to resolve itself into a melody after a while. The sound of it, the seeming levity in his voice, is strangely off-putting; Prompto stuffs his hands into his pockets and ducks his head while he walks, trying to ignore the way the tune picks at his nerves.

They’re at the park before long — through the ornamental archway, Prompto catches a glimpse of flickering lights, and his stomach flips. There’s already somebody in there, which puts paid to their new plans.

Ardyn seems unbothered. He moves ahead of Prompto with a swish of his long coat, and Prompto watches him approach the source of the lights. Soon they resolve themselves into candles, held in the hands of a group of people, maybe a half dozen or so; Ardyn steps up to them, nodding in greeting, and turns to beckon Prompto over.

They’re an assortment of ages and shapes and backgrounds. Prompto recognises a couple from the senior class at his school, decked out in their usual gothic finery and not looking remotely out of place. There’s a girl who usually shows up to Regis’s circles, and even though he can’t recall ever learning her name, she nods in recognition. The others, Prompto has never seen before.

‘I have some friends I’d like you to meet,’ Ardyn says.

It seems odd for Ardyn to be the type to have _friends,_ but Prompto listens nevertheless as he goes through each of their names. There’s Amber and Farah, the two goths from his high school; Rachel is the girl from Regis’s circle; Tammy, Beatriz and Noah from another town a few miles away; and lastly a young blonde man who doesn’t look entirely happy to be there.

‘This is Loqi,’ Ardyn says lastly. ‘He’s just moved to town. Perhaps you might be able to help him settle in?’

The look Loqi flashes him, distorted by the flickering of the candle he holds, says that’s about the last thing he wants. Meekly, Prompto looks away.

‘Can we get this started?’ Amber says. ‘I’m getting melted wax all over my hands.’

They each take a seat, forming a circle. Ardyn sits with Prompto on one side of him and Loqi on the other; Rachel swiftly takes a seat on Prompto’s side, as though glad to see a familiar face.

‘You may all have varying degrees of experience with circles,’ Ardyn says, ‘but I thought I’d dispense with the usual procedure tonight, given that this is our first time all together.’

There’s something arresting about the way he speaks — like his voice commands a hush around the group. Prompto can’t help but think he’s done this a number of times before.

‘Gatherings such as this are supposed to be a time of joining together as an extended family,’ Ardyn continues. ‘It’s a pleasant sentiment, although it doesn’t always hold true. Sometimes family comes easily; sometimes you have to fight for it.

‘I was part of a coven, many years ago, who became closer than family to me. My brother was there too, but our bond transcended family; at our circles, we found a way of connecting with one another beyond the mundane trappings of sibling loyalty. It’s my hope that this group may come to fill a similar sort of role for each of you.

‘In time, perhaps we may consider forming a coven of our own — for now, however, let’s start simple. Loqi, if you please.’

Past Ardyn, Loqi reaches into the satchel that sits on the ground beside him. He withdraws two candles from it and hands one to Ardyn, waiting for him to light one before handing him the other. The first candle goes to Prompto, where he sets it down on the ground in from of him as the others have. The second sits in front of Ardyn.

‘In the wheel of the year,’ Ardyn says, ‘Imbolc is the festival of new beginnings. Perhaps it’s fitting that we all gather for the first time this evening — a festival traditionally associated with pledges for the coming year certainly seems appropriate, no?’

At Ardyn’s side, Prompto feels his legs twitch where they’re folded beneath him. He’s still reeling from being introduced so suddenly to a handful of new faces; he’s not even sure he wants to be here. Ardyn’s voice arrests him, however — compels him to stay where he is and listen patiently.

‘You might take a moment to think what you’d like to gain from our gatherings, should you continue to attend. A sense of camaraderie, perhaps. Of belonging. A means of learning more about yourself and the world around you. A chance at making up for past ills.’

In spite of himself, Prompto mulls over Ardyn’s words. His own circles at Regis’s home feel like a no-go zone for him now, with the risk of losing control always on his mind.

Maybe Ardyn has a point, though — maybe that feeling that he doesn’t fit, that he’s too _dangerous_ to be around the people he’s cares about, doesn’t have to follow him here. Maybe this is a chance for a fresh start.

‘Now,’ Ardyn says, reaching for Prompto and Loqi’s hands. ‘If you all would join hands and focus on the flame in front of you.’

Rachel’s palm is a little sweaty as Prompto slips his fingers into it. When he casts his senses towards her, she seems anxious. He wonders if she feels like she’s betraying her friends by being here, as he does.

‘We all have a power within us,’ Ardyn says. ‘Innate; untapped. Humans are capable of wonderful things, when we set our minds to it. Just as a single spark can ignite a fire, one person can be the source of immeasurable change.

‘Allow yourselves to relax. Allow the flame to fill your vision, and wash over you.’

It isn’t difficult to do as Ardyn says, since this is something Prompto has practiced with him before. He lets his eyes swim, the twisting, dancing shape of the fire at the centre of his focus.

‘Imagine that flame growing,’ Ardyn says. ‘Picture it swelling, fuelled by the very air we breathe.’

Prompto does this easily enough; in turn, the flame begins to grow. He hears a little gasp from across the circle but tries not to let it distract him.

‘Picture your flame fusing with all the others around the circle,’ Ardyn says, his voice a distant purr in the back of Prompto’s awareness. ‘Allow them to join as one.’

In Prompto’s mind, he crafts an image of the flame — spurred on by energy drawn from the world around him — growing exponentially and arcing upwards, toward the middle of the circle. Little by little his image manifests in reality.

It’s subtle at first — so subtle that the others probably don’t notice. It’s as though the flickering of the candle flames are all reaching towards each other, swayed not by a breeze but by some compulsion. When Prompto allows himself to break his concentration for just a moment, he can see that Rachel’s flame is straining eagerly to get to his, while Ardyn’s has already grown to a column of fire, twisting in the air. Beside him, Loqi seems to be having similar success.

Energy thrums through the circle, and Prompto finds himself buoyed by it. At his side, Rachel’s practically overbrimming with excitement and he lets that fuel him, channels it toward his candle.

Loqi and Ardyn’s flames are the first to meet, joining together like the forked tongue of a snake. Across the circle, Beatriz’s face is intent with concentration as she guides her own flame forward until it meets in the middle.

Prompto’s next; with a thrill, he _feels_ the connection before he sees it. It’s as though he _is_ the fire — as though all four of them are, their energies joined.

One by one their flames connect, until there’s a spinning vortex of fire in front of them. Prompto feels like he should be scared, but he’s not. All he feels is excitement, and power — _so much power._

Ardyn’s hand slips from his. Prompto glances to his left and watches as Ardyn raises his arms, making curious shapes with his hands as he mutters something too softly to be heard. The fire seems to grow at first, casting the circle with its orange glow, until Ardyn claps his hands together and it collapses in on itself like an implosion, with a deafening bang.

They’re in darkness now, fire and candle alike extinguished. The park is utterly still without the roar of the inferno.

Prompto’s heart won’t stop pounding.

Beside him, Rachel gives a giddy little giggle and claps her hands over her mouth. Prompto can hear excited murmurs from some of the others, and he doesn’t need to cast his senses out to feel the elation from them, pouring out unrestrained.

‘This is just a taste,’ Ardyn says. ‘The possibilities of what we can achieve together are limitless.’

Circles with Regis have never been like this — have never filled Prompto with such a feeling of raw potential.

He’s not scared of his power any more, he realises with a thrill: he craves it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A wild update appears!

The flame flickers to life; with the slightest shifting of Prompto’s attention, it sputters back out.

It had once seemed so exhilarating to make  _ something _ out of  _ nothing; _ with Ardyn’s careful tuition, Prompto’s learning all about how  _ destroying _ can be just as empowering as  _ creating. _ It can be just as beautiful to watch the life leach from one plant, the leaves wilting as if in timelapse, as it is to use that life to bring something else into bloom.

He’s only toying with the flame now, doing it almost out of habit. It’s like clicking a pen in class; like fidgeting to keep his mind at rest. An itch that it’s oh so easy to scratch.

When a knock comes at the door, he hardly bothers to quench the flame. Gives a lazy ‘Come in’ and puts it out with a blink of his eyes.

‘I’m heating up leftover pot roast,’ his mom says, once she’s through the door. ‘Can I get you some?’

He’s at his desk facing the window, back to her; he shakes his head without turning around and pushes his hair lazily back on two legs. He can feel her apprehension from all the way across the room; knows before she even opens her mouth that she’s going to chide him.

‘You need to eat, honey,’ she says. ‘I can make you something else, if you want.’

Prompto knows that there would have been a time when he would have happily taken second helpings of whatever she offered him — when he’d been only too glad to leap at the doggy bags she used to bring back from work, no matter how grease-ridden or soggy they might have been.

In theory, he can remember the thrill of it. Can remember how mindlessly he could stuff his face, bite after bite, already wondering what he would have for dessert before his meal was half-finished.

He’s found something new now, though. Something better.

‘I’ll grab something later,’ he says flatly. He feels the jagged edges of her concern dull, just slightly. ‘I’m not hungry right now.’

She lingers in the doorway, and he can tell from the waves coming off of her that she’s debating with herself. She’s been doing that a lot lately — choosing her battles more and more. Where once she’d been so overprotective that it was stifling, it feels like she’s given up.

That suits him just fine.

‘I’ve got a lot of homework to do,’ he says. ‘You mind getting the door on your way out?’

There’s barely a sigh from her as she steps away, pulling the door shut behind her; even after she’s walked up the hallway, he can still feel negative emotion pouring off her in waves.

* * *

With the coming of spring, the world awakens from its long, frostbitten slumber.

Or that’s how it probably is in the rest of the world — in Insomnia Falls, it seems that Mother Nature hasn’t quite got the memo.

Prompto can feel it, though: the first stirrings of life, hidden away under the snow that still clings stubbornly to the ground. To anyone else walking the streets it might seem that spring is far away, but he can feel the tentative little sprouts of energy emerging, stretching out towards him with each step he takes.

It’ll be Ostara soon — not Easter, but the pagan fertility festival it shares its roots with. The worshippers of the town will celebrate the coming of new life, even as the snows continue to fall in dribs and drabs.

Normally, Ostara is a chance for decadence at the Caelums’ home: around now Prompto and Noct would help decorate the house in spring-themed garlands, taking prized fertility ornaments out of storage and displaying them for all to see.

There’ll be no grand gathering this year; Regis’s health has taken a turn for the worse of late, and without the man himself to ring in the sabbat, the festival rings hollow.

As much as Prompto’s worried for the health of his father’s friend, he’s glad at least that he doesn’t have to make his excuses about missing another festival to spend it with Ardyn’s circle. It’s getting more and more difficult to maintain secrecy — especially with Gladiolus — and the last thing he needs, when he’s making such great progress, is to have everybody breathing down his neck.

He still gets the niggling feeling sometimes that he’s going behind Gladiolus’s back; that by fudging the truth about where he goes when he meets with the circle, he’s betraying his trust. The reality is less sinister — he knows that nobody would understand the work he and the others are doing with Ardyn.

It’s just… easier to keep it quiet. For now, at least.

He’s waiting for Loqi now by the heritage centre on the outskirts of town, ready to work on a research project together for Ardyn. Something about ley lines and energies, and the point of convergence centred beneath Insomnia Falls.

When Loqi shows up, finally, Prompto’s been waiting in the cold for the better part of thirty minutes, killing time by drawing energy into himself from his surroundings and letting it bleed out into the world again. It’s kept the cold at bay, but it does little to temper his irritation at Loqi’s tardiness — or at the fact that he looks like he just rolled out of bed ten minutes before arriving here.

There are circles under the other young man’s eyes, deep purple bruises the shape of half-moons. He’s unusually pale, even given his complexion, and his blonde hair hangs limply about his face.

Prompto knows better than to ask; he’s seen what the stoners at school look like on a Monday morning after a two-day bender.

‘Let’s get this started,’ he snaps, whirling toward the door behind him. ‘We only have a couple hours before this place closes for lunch.’

Loqi follows silently — sullenly — behind.

This isn’t Prompto’s first trip here. Many a history project has had him reaching out to the staff for their extensive local knowledge, and while at first it had been beyond boring he’d soon found it interesting to learn a little about his town’s history. He knows, of course, about its involvement in the witch trials — that local lore claims it to be one of the few locations across America where  _ actual _ witches were among those persecuted — but it’s only now, given what Ardyn has taught him, that any of it feels  _ relevant. _

Prompto bypasses the help desk at the front, giving a friendly wave to Ms. Hannigan as she squints at him over the tops of her glasses. Anything they want to find out will probably be beyond her purview.

‘There’s lots of cool stuff to learn, if you’ve got the time,’ Prompto says, showing Loqi the way. ‘I kinda grew up thinking this area was shitty but there’s a lot more to it than you’d think.’

He hazards a glance at Loqi; the guy couldn’t look more uninterested if he tried. Prompto has brief, frantic flashbacks to the last time he got paired up with somebody random on a group assignment at school and wound up doing the majority of the work just to make sure they didn’t fail.

‘So we should probably start with the trials and work our way back,’ he says, forcing brightness into his voice. ‘There’s gotta be a shred of truth in everything, right?’

The heritage centre is a combination of exhibits, primary sources and research texts on various subjects of local and regional interest. They can probably discount most of the exhibits since they cater to the younger audience, but the primary sources might shed some light. It’s just a shame they can’t examine anything directly and have to rely on digital copies of some of the restored works.

He ploughs ahead, his feet finding their way by habit to the section in question, and sets to work scouring the various journals they have on display.

It’s warm and dim in the centre; other than the soft, piped-in sounds of simulated waves to evoke the ocean, the place is silent. It’s easy for Prompto to get immersed in everything, to lose himself in the pages of history. He feels like a kid again, discovering the local stories for the first time.

He brought a notebook with him, which he uses to jot down anything that might be helpful: places that are mentioned frequently across texts, references to local geography. He sees the river — and the falls for which the town is named — a number of times, and decides it can’t be a coincidence.

He’s distantly remembering a conversation he had with Ardyn about the area, about the  _ mystical energy _ that supposedly made it so special, when he feels a prickle at the back of his neck. At first he thinks maybe it’s Loqi, but he hasn’t seen the guy since they went their separate ways. It might be a good time to check if he’s actually doing anything worthwhile, or just wasting both their time.

Loqi’s not in the room when Prompto glances around. With a sigh, he shuts his notebook and slips it into his backpack as he walks, following the footprint stickers on the ground into the next room of the exhibit. He finds Loqi right away, standing in front of one of the displays — and as Prompto feels that weird, prickling sensation at his nape again, Prompto realises that Loqi has the palms of his hands pressed to the glass, his head bowed slightly.

‘I don’t think you’re s’posed to—’ Prompto says, cutting off as he takes a step forward and a wave of nausea washes over him.

It’s like something’s pushing and pulling him in opposite directions at the same time; like his legs are compelling him forward, but something deep within resists with every ounce of will he has left to him.

His legs win out, bringing him on a slow trudge across the room.

He stops by Loqi’s side; stoops a little to look into the other’s face. Loqi looks even more pale now, the dim yellow light of the display turning his features gaunt, and his eyes are open but unseeing, as though he’s focusing on something that isn’t there.

‘Loqi?’ Prompto murmurs. ‘You… doin’ okay?’

There’s no answer, and that feeling of unease only grows. Prompto’s glance flickers to the display but all that’s within it is a fragment of a stag’s shed antlers, petrified with age.

‘Loqi?’ he says again, turning his gaze to his companion.

He extends a hand — tentatively — and lays it on Loqi’s arm.

The world goes dark.

_ He’s running through the trees, his long limbs bringing him over undergrowth and discarded branches with little toil. His body’s built for this; primed for speed. _

_ He needs it, if he’s going to escape. _

_ Behind him, all around him, he can hear the sounds of his pursuers. They’re not as light on their feet as he is, but somehow they’re gaining on him, as though they have an unnatural edge. _

_ He feels pain bloom at his flank; realises something sharp and shearing has pierced his flesh. The instinct to run, to flee, to preserve himself is all-consuming, but he knows he’ll never make it — not with a wound. _

_ He turns, blundering down an incline. There’s water down there, and he’ll be more visible in the moonlight where the treeline breaks, but if he can just get a clear path perhaps he can outrun these hunters and their hideous tools… _

_ He can see the shimmer of the water up ahead, sparkling silver in the moonlight. He ducks his head and exerts himself, pushing every bit of energy into his sprinting limbs—  _

_ And suddenly there’s a man in front of him, tall and robed and holding something in his hand, something that glints in the moonlight, glints like ice and death. _

Prompto awakens from his daydream with a sharp and painful gasp; he can taste copper at the back of his throat, metallic and sickly, and he has to fight the urge to retch where he stands.

Loqi’s alert now, at least, his eyes wide as he turns them on Prompto. Whatever just happened, Prompto has the distinct, uneasy feeling he wasn’t the only one to feel it.

‘What—’ he blurts, his tongue sluggish and foreign in his mouth. ‘Did you just—’

There’s something odd about Loqi’s face — something childlike, almost. While Prompto feels dizzy and sick, his companion seems to exult.

‘I did,’ Loqi says in a hoarse whisper. ‘I saw it, too.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers Ostara, the fertility festival.
> 
> Please note, the rating has gone up to **Mature**.
> 
> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

There’s a giddy energy tonight; Prompto isn’t sure if it’s a good or a bad thing.

When he looks about the faces of the others gathered at the circle, he can feel the same uncertainty emanating from each of them — a sort of fractious excitement, anticipation of something that they can’t quite place.

Beside him, Loqi practically  _ vibrates. _ It’s difficult not to absorb some of his fervour where Prompto sits, legs tucked beneath him.

The ground is still cold, shot through with frost, but with the quilts and blankets they’ve brought along for the gathering, he can’t even feel it. They’ve scattered lanterns and candles about the place, and if he squints just so it’s easy to imagine that spring really  _ is _ here; that the world is fertile once more.

Ardyn sweeps grandly into the park, his robes trailing along the ground behind him; he’s wearing a flamboyant ensemble of purple, deep and sumptuous shades intermingled with pale accents. In his hands, he carries a yellow candle, the flickering flame casting merry shadows across his face.

‘I’m pleased to see you all here tonight,’ he says, glancing at each expectant face with a nod. When his glance locks with Prompto’s, his eyes seem to narrow appraisingly before he moves on. ‘Tonight is one of my favourite festivals, as it heralds the resurgence of the earth’s bounty.’

He glides forward, the long skirts of his robe giving the illusion that he simply  _ floats _ across the grass. Once at the circle, he takes a spot across from Prompto and sinks gracefully to his seat.

‘We’ve focused on the transference of energy in our previous meetings,’ Ardyn says. ‘Tonight, I wanted merely to give you all the chance to soak it in — to feel the stirrings of the world around you and bask in it, to accept Mother Nature’s gifts and do with them as you please.’

There’s something decadent about him tonight; intoxicating. Not for the first time, Prompto is aware of just how charismatic the man is, even if it seems intimidating at times.

‘The concept of  _ fertility _ may differ for each of you,’ Ardyn purrs — and it seems there’s a twinkle to his eyes as he casts them over the group. ‘For some it’s the thrill of a feast; for others it’s holding your beloved in your arms. Perhaps, in years to come, you’ll be lucky enough to create new life, to see the miracle of creation first-hand.

‘I want you to focus, tonight, on what fertility means to you — whatever that might be. To let your mind fill with thoughts of renewal. Consider the hare, or the egg: both common symbols of fertility in our society. Consider rebirth, in whichever form that might take.’

Ardyn takes the hands of those to either side of him; one by one they each clasp the hand of the next, linking everyone as one. Rachel is beside Prompto again, and he can feel that giddiness magnified within her where she sits, her skin pulsing with heat.

‘Ostara is the spring equinox,’ Ardyn says. ‘The midpoint between solstices. It represents the perfect balance between light and dark, between feminine and masculine — but it’s also a tipping point. It’s a precipice; a moment of great potential. A climax, if you will.’

Movement ripples through the group — not quite laughter, but a sort of nervous stirring. There’s something in the air tonight, certainly, and Prompto can feel it in the way the hairs stand up beneath the layers of his clothes.

‘Close your eyes, everyone,’ Ardyn says, leading by example. ‘Allow yourselves to bask in this most resplendent night, and allow it to take you where it will.’

He talks them through it as he always does, in tones so soft one almost has to strain to hear him and yet it’s impossible not to hang on his every word. His voice lulls and lures, guiding them into a deep state of relaxed concentration.

He points out the little signs of the world coming to life around them: the buds sprouting on the trees, the first of the flowers slowly unfurling. The animals, too, have begun to shake themselves awake, dreamily returning to their old haunts.

Prompto can feel it all — energy not just swirling around him, but funneling towards him, as if eager for him to drink it in. He merely has to sip upon it and it pours into him, readily and willingly, setting his skin afire.

He thinks of Gladiolus, and of the embraces they’ve shared; thinks of the heat he feels coursing through his veins whenever they’re close to one another. As if by themselves, images begin to form in his head of his boyfriend: of his skin flushed with excitement, of the sculpted muscles of his back, of the curve of his lips as he twists them into a smirk.

Flames lap at Prompto, within and without. He’s drowning in it — in the life force of the world pouring into him, in the picture of Gladio within his mind, so close and real it’s almost as though he were truly there.

Prompto’s palms are clammy within the grasp of his companions, and as he feels a sort of fitful energy emanating from each of them, he wonders what images fill  _ their _ minds, what fantasies fuel  _ their _ desires.

It’s a whirlwind of sensation and emotion, and it seems to last no more than a few minutes, yet when Ardyn commands them to open their eyes Prompto finds himself staring, dazed, at candles that have melted away to nothing. Hours they’ve been at this; hours have passed in the blink of an eye.

He feels drunk as Ardyn sends them off on their way with wishes for a joyous night; he knocks shoulders, giggling, with the other gatherers, and he even spies a dopey smile on Loqi’s lips, his normally pale cheeks flushed a vibrant pink.

It’s all  _ too much, _ Prompto decides — too much to squander, too much to waste. He seems to float from the park and through the streets, his bicycle by his side, and before he even knows it he’s at Gladiolus’s door, his heart drumming steadily at his throat.

He waits outside, listens. It’s late, far later than it’s ever been after any circle he’s attended, and as he probes his senses outwards he can tell that most of the inhabitants of the house are asleep. Clarus is still awake, he thinks, tension surrounding him as he works into the night; he’s so engrossed in his task that he’s unlikely to leave his desk.

Gladio’s dreaming upstairs — something vaguely fitful and dark. It’s not difficult to rouse him from sleep with a gentle nudge of the energy swirling around him, and even less so to coax him down from his bedroom, leading him with silent footfalls to the door.

When the door opens, Gladiolus stands there looking slightly muddled, his eyelids still heavy with the last vestiges of sleep. The sight of Prompto at his doorstep seems to wake him well enough, though, and the warring feelings of confusion and pleasure leach out from him.

‘Prom?’ he says huskily.

It’s just from sleepiness, but Prompto can’t help but think how sexy it is; how sexy  _ he _ is, in just a pair of sweats held in place at his hips with in a knot that would take only the slightest of teasing to untie.

‘Mind if I come in?’ Prompto asks, wetting his lips. ‘It’s kinda cold out here.’

So that’s a lie — the jacket Gladiolus got him for Yule is thick and heavy on his shoulders, and flames of desire still lick at his flesh, desperate to be sated. Nevertheless, Gladiolus steps aside and gestures him in, quietly shutting the door after him.

Prompto doesn’t need an invitation to head upstairs, and he’s secretly pleased when Gladiolus falls into step behind him. He treads silently up each step, his ears pricked for any sounds of stirring, and when he gets to Gladio’s room he bumps the door open with his hip as his hands work the zip of his jacket open.

For a little while, after his jacket has been shed and Gladio has shut the door, they stand in silence feet apart. It’s dark, but the moon is bright enough that Prompto can see the curve of Gladio’s lips — but even if he couldn’t, the curiosity, the interest, pours off of Gladiolus in intense waves.

‘Not like I ain’t pleased to see you,’ Gladiolus murmurs, a slight smile twisting his mouth, ‘but what brings you by here so late? Everythin’ okay?’

‘Yeah,’ Prompto says with a nod. ‘Everything’s perfect.’

He takes a tiny step forward; sees Gladiolus shift towards him in response.

‘I had this… feeling,’ Gladiolus says, frowning slightly. ‘Like… Like I knew you were here.’

Prompto splits into a grin — it takes everything not to giggle with glee.

‘I know,’ he replies.

He takes another little half-step, and this time Gladiolus matches it, moving up until they’re toe to toe. Reverently, he takes Prompto’s jacket from his grasp, leans over to set it aside, and turns his glance to Prompto once more.

‘You want to know what I’m feeling right now?’ Prompto asks, teasing.

He sees uncertainty twist Gladiolus’s brow into a frown, but there’s a nod from him nonetheless.

Slowly, gently, Prompto lifts his hand and presses it to Gladiolus’s chest, just over his heart. Gladiolus flinches just slightly from the coldness of the touch, but he relaxes soon enough; beneath his ribcage, his heartbeat picks up.

For once, Prompto doesn’t concentrate on the energy surrounding him — but on his own essence, on the giddiness and excitement and  _ lust _ he can feel pulsing through him. He lets it leak out, guiding it down the length of his arm and through his hand, into Gladio. He closes his eyes; imagines what it would feel like if Gladio were to lean down, to cup his jaw in his hands, to pull him into a hungry kiss.

Under the palm of Prompto’s hand, Gladio’s heart picks up a delirious beat.

He fills his head with pictures: pictures of them, limbs intertwined beneath the sheets. It’s all too easy to imagine the rasp of Gladiolus’s stubble against his throat as kisses bring him downwards, down and down and down to where Prompto’s hips arch up to meet him.

‘Prom,’ Gladiolus gasps, as all of Prompto’s need pours into him. His voice is so raw with need that Prompto can’t resist opening his eyes just to see the look on his face.

It doesn’t disappoint — his eyes dark with desire, his mouth parted slightly as his breath pants out between his lips.

‘I want to be with you,’ Prompto says.

It’s at once as though someone else has control of him, teasing the words from his tongue, and as though it’s finally his  _ true _ self speaking, unshackled by inhibition. There’s no alcohol that could make him feel so free, so liberated.

‘You—’ Gladio says, pausing to swallow hard. ‘You want to—’

Licking his lips, Prompto nods. His hand smooths down from Gladiolus’s chest and brushes through the hair leading down his belly, stopping just short of the band of his sweatpants; he doesn’t need to look down to feel the lust surging through Gladiolus, all converging on a single point between his legs.

Prompto hooks a fingertip under the top of Gladio’s pants; he tugs just slightly at them, then pulls away, moving toward the bed.

When he hears the slightest creak of the floorboards under Gladio’s tread, muffled by the plush carpet, he can’t help but smirk. He’s barely at the edge of the mattress, preparing to turn and sit, before he feels Gladiolus behind him, his warmth bleeding through Prompto’s clothes into his skin.

Gladiolus’s hands find Prompto’s hips, kneading into them through his clothes — and even that little bit of contact has Prompto shivering with delight as he leans back into Gladio’s embrace

There’s a feverishness to Gladiolus’s touch, as though Prompto’s excitement fuels him, too; and even if he let a little of his emotions leach into Gladiolus, he can hardly be blamed, so taken with the night. They’re on the bed before Prompto knows it, Gladiolus astride him, and Gladio’s kisses are hot and eager and  _ just _ rough enough to sate him.

For the moment, anyway — it’s not long before Prompto’s hitching up toward him, writhing and whining and letting his body beg for more. Gladio’s kisses aren’t enough any more; his  _ hands _ aren’t enough.

Prompto wants it all.

‘I’m ready,’ he whispers, his eyes desperately seeking out Gladio’s. ‘I want you.’

He sees hesitance in his lover’s glance — knows that Gladiolus would sooner chop off his own arm than rush him, than go somewhere he’s uncomfortable — but soon Gladio’s nodding, his hands finding their way to Prompto’s fly.

Hot kisses; skin burning into skin. The air seems to crackle with electricity as their bodies find their way to each other inevitably, inexorably. 

Prompto couldn’t imagine a more perfect night, a more perfect way for this all to play out, as Gladiolus takes him into his arms. It’s everything he ever imagined and so much more, and the air is heady and heavy and thick with the sounds of their desire.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, Prompto’s heart is so full it feels as though it might break — he has to stop, to look into Gladio’s eyes, to reassure himself that this is all real.

Gladio’s glance burns into his own, his dark eyes intense in the moonlight; his grip is solid and firm and it grounds him, lets Prompto know that he’s  _ there, _ that he’s not going anywhere.

Afterwards, when the fire has finally died down within Prompto — when it feels, at last, as though he’s sated — he curls up close to Gladio’s side, head on his chest, and listens to Gladio’s heart as it slows from staccato to a steady beat.

The whole thing feels like it was a fantasy, a fever dream. Prompto thinks of how boldly he had waltzed into Gladio’s room and the thought of it alone is enough to make him blush and hide his face against Gladiolus’s torso.

‘Where did all of  _ that _ come from?’ Gladio teases, twisting to nuzzle a kiss into Prompto’s hair.

Prompto groans and hides his face all the more, wriggling downwards until he can pull the blanket over his head. He can feel Gladio shaking with soft laughter, and the muffled sound of it makes Prompto’s heart ache.

Once the laughter dies down, Gladiolus seeks him out, lifting the blanket gently and peering down beneath it. When Prompto finally brings himself to look up and meet his lover’s eyes, he sees his expression has gone serious.

‘Hey,’ Gladio says. ‘You know I was happy to wait, right? As long as you needed?’

Sighing, Prompto crawls back up the bed. Once he’s at the top, Gladiolus reaches across him to turn on the lamp by the bed and nudges a kiss against his cheek.

‘It just… felt right,’ Prompto says, haltingly. ‘Like tonight was the night.’

He feels Gladiolus shift against him as he nods. With another sigh, Prompto sinks into the crook of his arm and rests a hand on Gladio’s belly, curling his fingers into the hair there.

The silence that stretches out between them feels fraught somehow — tense. For a moment Prompto worries that something’s wrong, and when he looks up he finds Gladio watching him, and he looks nervous, more nervous than Prompto’s ever seen him.

‘I… I love you, Prom.’

Earlier, when they had been — well,  _ together _ — Prompto had been sure his heart couldn’t possibly take any more before it burst. Now, he knows he’s wrong; now, he knows that his heart’s as full as it could possibly get, so full it  _ hurts. _ He darts upwards on a whim, slipping his arms around Gladio’s neck, and lavishes him with a flurry of kisses.

‘Does this—’ Gladio blurts, in a break amid the onslaught. ‘S’this mean you love me too?’

He’s grinning; Prompto laughs against his lips and nods, dropping his head against Gladio’s shoulder and pressing close.

He doesn’t have it in him to be self-conscious — can’t even remember what it had felt like earlier in their relationship, when he’d worried that Gladiolus would be repulsed by his body. All he feels is safe and happy and warm and  _ loved. _

‘Yeah,’ he says with a sigh of contentment, nestling his face against Gladio’s neck. ‘Yeah, it does.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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